The Fourth Gun

MOONCAKE

1

MUSTERING OUT

The roads and byways of Maryland and Virginia were teeming with a bedraggled looking lot of soldiers in July 1865. The boys of the Ohio 23 rd Infantry Regiment mustered out on a sweltering hot day late that month in Cumberland, Maryland. We had a short, but emotional ceremony. I was just like all the others - I couldn’t quite figure out what to think and I didn’t know what to feel. I was elated but melancholy. I was cheerful but exhausted. I tried without success to remember what life had been like four years earlier. I felt lost and confused, but at least I knew what to do next. I had to make my way back to Fairfield County, Ohio. I had to see my Ma and Pa and the farm I hadn’t seen but had been dreaming about for four years. I wanted to see my brothers, Wes and Ben. I wanted to see my dog, Rocky. I hadn’t heard anything from home since a couple of months after Antietam, and that was a long time ago.

After Appomattox the end was in sight, but there were still battles fought and other surrenders, most significantly in North Carolina, Alabama and Oklahoma. It all became unreal, for our reality had been marching and hiding, in the heat and the cold, monotony, and once in a while, skirmishing and fighting. For four long years. And the fighting – I wasn’t ready to think about that yet. And then old Honest Abe getting shot? I couldn’t think about any of it for a while.

After the ceremony, I looked for my friend Harley. I knew we would ride back home together. His family’s farm was next to mine and I had known him since I could remember. His folk were a bit rough around the edges my Pa used to say, but there was never a better kind of people than the Cobbs of Fairfield County - especially when the chips were down or a helping hand was needed. And Harley and I had just spent four years in hell together. That brings men together, as I found out, like nothing else. And I could sure use the company on the long ride home.

I found him, standing in the middle of the parade grounds, as usual, the center of attention, telling one of his stories to a group of the most rag-tag, rough-looking characters you could ever hope to see. I had fought with these men, and I knew some by name, some by sight, some by reputation. The rest I knew because of what they had accomplished and how they had gone about their business.

Harley, I yelled out, Harley, my friend, where’ve you been?

Here, Billy, here, just tellin’ these fellers all ‘bout how we got our feet wet down at Carnifex Ferry. Remember, Billy? We practically birthed up a whole new state all by ourselves. And we done it in spite o’ ol’ Rosy lettin’ them Rebels slip away in the middle o’ the night. And we done it with those ol’ flintlocks ‘is ‘ighness gave us, left over from Yorktown I’d think. I figure mine was used by George Washington hisself.

Like most of the 23rd, Harley didn’t have much love for Colonel William Rosecrans. He was regular army, a West Pointer, and didn’t seem to have much respect for his men and so the feeling went both ways. Maybe it was because we were all volunteers. I don’t really know, but Rosy let us all know how much better than us he was even though we were doing the fighting – and doing it well and making him look good. Harley didn’t have much patience for that kind of attitude.

Yeah, I know. Maybe they’ll put our pictures up on the new West Virginia flag, I said. Harley leaned over and slapped his knees, giving out that big guffaw he always had at the ready for most any occasion. Harley and I were only 22 years old, but still, he was the toughest, most raw-boned man I knew, and he was a good one to have on your side in a fight. He was that way as a boy, too. We’d had a few little scraps at school growing up, and I always found him on my side. He never shied away from trouble, but he never went looking for it either. He was a little shorter than average, but stocky, with wide shoulders, and I don’t think an ounce of fat on him. He was also very good with his hands, but not just in a fight. He could use them to fix most anything that was broken. He wasn’t unpleasant to look at, and I knew he did all right with the ladies although he wasn’t one to brag. Maybe that goofy, sideways smile helped a bit. I was taller, but most said I was a bit lean, too. I guess we both had grown to some kind of manhood during this war, but in some ways we hadn’t changed either.

His audience began to disperse. I could see waves of heat coming up from the parade ground and there wasn’t a tree for a hundred yards around. There were the faint outlines of brick buildings off to the north through the haze of the early afternoon heat and some old-growth woods to the south and east. But I was interested in the west. We stood there for a moment in the sun.

Harley, let’s go home, I said.

"I know, I know. But to what? I know. What else can we do? Where else can we go? Those West Virginnies don’t want to see us back, that’s fer sure." Harley hadn’t heard from home for a couple of years either. The Army wasn’t any more competent at mail service than it was at anything else, I guess, except for fighting. After General Grant came east and got us going we did fight. Our lack of communication with home didn’t necessarily mean bad news, but I figured Harley was as anxious to find out about his family as I was mine.

Just one more thing we got to do. The boys are having a big blowout over in the middle of town tonight. I heard the mayor himself was opening the doors to his house. He’s providing the cider and whiskey, and they’re closing off the streets.

Now, I’m jus’ ready fer that, said Harley. Let’s do it!

We did it, but I can’t say either one of us could remember much. It must have been good, though. Next morning, Harley had a big, black, swollen left eye and I had a bit of a limp. We figured we came through it just about right. One thing, though. When we started out for home that morning, we picked up a mysterious third rider. Neither one of us knew how that had happened or what his name was. We were starting to ride out of town, me on my sorrel and Harley on his big bay, with our bedrolls, and each of us carrying the side-arms we had had with us for the last couple of years of service. Harley had a big old Dragoon Colt in a saddle holster and a Springfield rifle. I had my treasured Henry rifle that I had found at Cedar Creek the previous October and my two Army Colts. We had our saddlebags full of what grub we had found, and our outfits looked pretty good. Except for our clothes, which were the best we could come up with on short notice with help from our company Captain just before muster. He told us we shouldn’t ask about them and we didn’t. We also had received our final pay. We were making $16.00 a month at the time, and although it didn’t seem quite enough, just getting it allowed us to say a final good-bye to the Army.

Our new rider trotted up beside us on the way out towards the Cumberland Road, which we figured to take most of the way. Right on time, boys, good to see you!

Yeah, uh, yeah, good morning, I managed. Harley looked on.

Hah-ha! You don’t remember me, do you? he said.

Well, I . . . Harley?

He looks right familiar, but . . .

"Well, then, allow me to introdu-, er, re-introduce myself. My name’s Bradley, Jim Bradley, and I’m not surprised you two gents don’t recall, you were having a real good time last night, he said. That is, until that little fracas with some soldier boys from Iowa started to go wrong. Anyway, I did try to lend a hand, me being from Shelby County and all. You two were kind enough to let me ride on over to Ohio with you, if you recall."

All right, good. Good enough, Harley?

"Well, yeah, ‘course it is, him lendin’ a hand and all. I mean, he says he did. Still, can’t quite recall . . ." Harley rubbed his stubbly chin.

Jim Bradley told us he was from Cincinnati. He was heading home after the war, just like we were. He didn’t seem to want to talk about the last four years any more than we did, but he did say he was at Antietam. He rode a spirited black horse with a fancy outfit, including a silver rosette on his collar. He was wearing clean, store-bought clothes. It looked like he was carrying a pepperpot, maybe a Cooper pocket gun behind his vest. He was of average height and weight, with a shock of brown hair hanging down over his forehead and an officer’s style hat. He reminded me of a younger version of one of my uncles. He wasn’t unpleasant to look at, but he had a stern look and thin lips. He spoke well, as if he’d had a good education.

I had heard that there were some fine schools in Cincinnati, and at one time thought of visiting with a purpose of finding one that suited me. I had been helping out with the Columbus law firm of Tobias & Smith for a while, as much as I could while helping Pa with the farm. Wes and Ben were getting big enough they were both starting to be a real help to Pa, too. That gave me a chance to do more legal work and Tobias & Smith were bringing me along. First-rate attorneys, they had an excellent reputation in town, and with the judges. They had me doing a lot of preparation of documents, but they also gave me a chance to read law. They had a lot of books. I had learned how to read cases, make arguments and interview witnesses. It had been my dream to practice law. Then the war came.

We rode along, trying to calculate the time to the next town. We aimed to have a stop at the Carver Tavern in Wheeling on our fourth night. After camping in the woods along the roadside the hospitality of one of the roadside inns would make a welcome stop. While riding, Harley and I learned a lot about Jim’s family and his schooling. His father had built a successful coal mining business and he expected to go home and gradually take over its management. Once he got comfortable with us, he talked about his mother and father.

I suppose I have what are referred to in most places as good, God-fearing parents and a good Christian family. We went to church on Sundays, didn’t dance or play cards. I never saw my father drink whiskey, although I know he did. Some nights he would go to his ‘gentlemen’s club’, Jim said with a sly smile. When he came back he would smell of smoke and leather and drink. Sometimes he would bring books home. He would never talk to me about it, but said when I got old enough I would go with him. He required me to read books that he selected for me.

My Pa used to take me t’ the tavern in Millersport, said Harley with pride. He used t’ talk to ‘is old cronies for hours. They talked about the country, politics, some about farmin’ and the like. I mostly listened. My Pa don’t read, but he is smart. And he made me learn. Then, he had me read the books I could git out loud to ‘im. I did that most ev’ry night. His favorites was Ivanhoe and The Three Musketeers. He liked adventures like James Fenimore Cooper. When we could git a paper, he’d make me read it to ‘im."

My father also liked Sir Walter Scott! He made me read every book he wrote! said Jim.

Sometimes we’d go fishin’ and Pa would make me bring the book, so’s I could read to ‘im. I bet your Pa is a good fisherman and a hunter, eh Jim?

I don’t know, my father never had much time for that. He told me he’d take me on a big hunting trip out west someday. I’d like that. Maybe now that the war’s over . . .

2

JIM BRADLEY

We rode up to the Carver about 6:00 in the evening just as the air started to cool a bit. There had been a lot of traffic on the road and we expected company when we came in. There were two horses and a mule out front and we tied our horses to the post as there was still plenty of room. There were no stage coaches around so I thought we’d be able to get a room for the night. The place was a two-story brick building, what I had learned to call a federal. It was well-kept with a large enough porch to accommodate four white rocking chairs and a side table.

Harley, Jim and I walked up the short stairs, our boots clunking against the wide steps, and strode in together. It smelled good inside. There was no one there to greet us, but we heard some muted voices that sounded like at least one lively discussion was in progress, along with the clink of glasses, off to our left. We instinctively veered off that way.

Evenin’ gents! What’ll you have? The speaker was an older, portly fellow with thinning white hair and a ready smile. He stood behind a well-worn bar, about 25 feet long, and closed at both ends so he’d have to open a little trap door at the close end to get out. The room appeared to have been a large parlor when the building had probably served as a home for a wealthy family in times past. There were six tables, all with chairs, evenly spread out on a creaky hardwood floor. Three men sat at the farthest table away from the window, and were partially hidden in the darkening of early evening. I saw enough to notice a familiar war-weary look on their faces, and there was a pistol on the table. They had given us a brief, unfriendly glance when we walked in.

Harley was in his element now. I reckon we’ll need drinks, dinner and a room, prob’ly more ‘r less in that order. I’ll ‘ave a rye.

Whiskey please, and then whatever our friend Jim here is having, I said.

I would like a brandy, and if they are available, we could use two rooms, please, Jim said.

Whiskey, rye and brandy coming up, Mr. Carver said. As for dinner, we have beef stew. As for rooms, we have two. Fifty cents apiece and pay in advance.

Deal! Harley said. And we’ll need a liv’ry for our horses.

Just take ‘em out back, you’ll see. Mr. Carver said.

I saw how Harley was enjoying himself, so I volunteered to take care of the horses. I also saw how those gentlemen in the corner had started to whisper, one of them looking and pointing at Jim. When I came back in, I had one of my Colts tucked into my belt. And I always knew where that Henry was. I’d left it leaning against the window sill by Harley.

Harley and Jim were making quick work of their drinks when I returned. I’ve known Harley for a long time. He gets loud after a couple, and he was starting up already. But it was a pleasure to see how they were getting along, not only on the road, but here in the inn. You might say they were opposites in many ways. They were from different classes of folk, but both good men, at least I knew that Harley was, and had come to believe the same of Jim. You could see how different they were just by looking at their hands. Harley was only 22 years old, but his were rough and scarred. Jim was older but had the soft hands of a man who never knew hard labor.

Where you boys headed? A gruff voice demanded from that dark corner. The words matched the face, which featured a cruel, thin-lipped smirk.

We’re just plumb tired o’ campin’ out th’ last four years and figger on goin’ back home to Ohio for some home cookin’ and soft beds, said Harley.

I’m a Hoosier m’self, the man said. Name’s Jack. These here two gents with me are Carl and Jake. We’re doin’ the same, but have a sight longer to go, I guess. What outfit you with?

Twenty-third Ohio, I said.

Not that other feller there with you, that Mr. Fancy Pants, Jack said. He’s a Reb. I can smell ‘em, you know.

Jack had that look about him. I’d met several during the war. He was a big man and a dangerous man. He was the type who just naturally looked for trouble. His friends didn’t look like much and they weren’t itching for a scrap, but he was.

We never had talked about the fighting we’d all just been through. But that wasn’t uncommon. We’d all been through it. And Jim had said he’d been at Antietam.

Nooo, that ain’t so. You might should take that back there, fella, said Harley standing up straight. He was at Antietam, just like us. Harley had his back up and I suddenly got a feeling in the pit of my stomach, something that I’d gotten used to having, over and over, the last few years. I looked again at that pistol on the table and then I looked in Jack’s eyes.

Jim was sitting in the middle, between Harley and me and facing the bar. Jim and I were almost straight across from those Hoosiers. I could sense Jim stiffening up a bit and he sat higher in his chair. He tried to keep it calm.

Well, I was, boys. He looked at me and then to his left, at Harley and then at the other table. Only we called it Sharpsburg. He looked back at Harley. It just never came up, with us riding together like we have been. I thought about mentioning it, but, somehow, it didn’t seem important anymore. Not after Appomattox. I hope that’s not a problem.

But it already was. Harley’s jaw nearly dropped to the floor. Jack stood up, and slowly placed his hands on the two Navy Colts he had stuck in his waistband. I looked at Harley and he looked at me. We understood each other just like we always had. He had already recovered his composure. We weren’t putting up with any guff from this Jack and his Hoosiers. Reb or not, Jim Bradley was now riding with us. Jim saw that look. Harley didn’t have his Dragoon with him. It was a little awkward to carry around. My Henry was where I’d left it, just out of Harley’s reach. I figured Jim had his Cooper.

Well, boys, what’ll it be? Jack snarled. We all three stood up together. Carl and Jake stood up, slowly, but they didn’t look like they wanted to. They each had an old pistol worked into their belts. They looked as old and worn as Harley’s.

Looks like it’s all up to you now, big man, I said, trying not to show my nervousness.

‘At’s right, Jack. See, we come in here fer drinkin’, not shootin’. Seen enough shootin’ fer a while, Harley chimed in, but with a more confident tone.

I noticed Jim’s right hand inching up towards that Cooper. Harley was shifting his weight and taking an almost imperceptible step back towards the Henry.

Jack drew, cocked and fired both Colts. Fast! But I heard him grunt at the same time. Jim had been a bit faster. That Cooper had come out and the shot hit Jack in the chest. Jack had still been able to hit me in the upper left chest and Jim in the ribs. Jim started to slump as Jack was falling back against the wall behind him. I was still struggling to get my Colt out. It was stuck in my belt! I was able to get one shot off and hit Jake in the belly. I don’t know how he could have been slower than me but he went down right there because of it. Harley had picked up the Henry and levered two bullets from the hip, into both Carl and Jack before Carl could get his gun off the table and fire. Carl was down. The impact of that .36 had sat me back down in my chair again. I looked over at Harley. Somehow, Jack was still in action. He was laboring to lift the one Colt up that he could still manage to grip as he slipped down the wall leaving a line of blood along the way. I was in a daze, but I heard the Henry go off again. Jack went down so hard the floor shook.

I looked off to my right. I was dizzy and couldn’t focus or hear. I think I saw Mr. Carver standing there with a shotgun leveled over towards the dark end of the room. I looked to my left and saw Harley standing, still with the Henry in his hands. I saw Jim slumping over in his chair, holding his right side. Then everything went dark.

3

BACK TO THE FARM

I opened my eyes to see the last thing any soldier ever wanted to see - an Army doctor with a knife in his right hand looking down at me. I didn’t feel like I could move but I tried to speak. What . . .? I croaked.

You’ve had a time of it there, Mr. Forest, he said. You’re going to be all right. Your friend wants to see you.

Harley peeked around the door to the room, then slowly walked in. He looked at the doctor, who nodded at him. He seemed pretty somber. He looked down at the floor. He can see you for a few minutes now, the doctor told him. Thanks, Doc, Harley said.

I reckon I’ll do the talkin’, Billy. You been out for a couple o’ days. He hesitated. He walked over to the window. He looked out. Did the Doc tell you where you are? This here’s a house our boys been usin’ as a sort of a field hospital the last couple o’ years. Mr. Carver knew the Doc. You remember the shootin’? The Doc had us bring you over here when he looked you over and decided you could be moved.

Har-, Harley? I tried.

"I’m gittin’ to that, Billy. He didn’t make it. He took one right in the chest, you know it was real close, too.

Ahh, Harley . . .

I know. I liked that Reb, too. There was a long silence.

Harley . . . Harley, I couldn’t get my Colt out. Maybe Jim . . . I swallowed hard . . . maybe. . .?

Nuthin’ you could o’ done would o’ changed a thing. I got word to Jim’s folks. His Pa come out to pick him up. I talked with his Pa some and so did Mr. Carver. He got the straight story. So did the law. His Pa thanked us, but he couldn’t stay and wait for you t’ come around. He did want you t’ have the Cooper and the holster though. He thought it fittin’. I got it here for ya. Doc says you can travel in a couple o’ days and I figure we better take the stage. I’m gonna git tickets. Your horse is fine. I’m takin’ good care. Now you rest and I’ll be back tomorrow.

I didn’t have the strength to argue with any of that. I didn’t much care anyway. Harley was taking care of everything and I knew I could depend on him. All I could think about was that I had let Jim down. I should have gotten that Colt out quicker. I decided that would never happen again. I grew up with guns, I guess everybody I knew did. My Pa taught me well. Then, during the war I became good at handling them, loading and shooting fast. But we never learned to get our guns out as fast as that Jack did, and for that matter, Jim had. We did some marching and lot of waiting and hiding, and most of the time our guns were already out and ready to shoot. But that was war. Now the war’s over and Jim gets killed and I get shot. I can’t walk around all the time with my Colt or my Henry in my hand. I could see if I ever needed them again I’d need to learn to get them into action a lot faster. I guess somehow I owed that to Jim. It felt like the war wasn’t really over yet.

Two days later I got up. Harley walked me over to Carver’s and we had ham and eggs and johnny-cakes and a lot of good, black coffee. I was feeling better and the doctor said I could travel if I took it easy. He still had me trussed up tight.

We got the early morning stage the next day and tied our horses to the back. That Cumberland Road was pretty smooth, but I guess stage coaches aren’t built for comfort. It took three more days to get to Fairfield County. We talked some about how we’d get back to