It was just before quitting time when I was summoned to the sanctum sanctorum of Woodrow Henry Irving Pierce, the managing editor of the Richmond Times-Dispatch. Such invitations were rare, and I knew that this would be either very good news, or, on the other hand, exceptionally bad news. I rapped on the frosted glass of his door and adjusted my tie as his gravelly voice bade me to enter.
Pierce was enthroned behind a cluttered, horseshoe-shaped desk, back-dropped by a ten-foot window, minus such hindrances as curtains or blinds, which had the most breathtaking view of the capitol city. The Governor should have been so lucky. “Whip”, as we all called him, was a short, fat, balding man, with a penchant for Cuban cigars and these huge bowties, which never failed to remind me of one colorful butterfly or another. The yellow-and-black jobber, that he was sporting today, looked very much like the state insect, the majestic Tiger Swallowtail. He regarded me for a moment, as a king would a serf, and waved me to a leather chair near his desk.
“How went the day, Witherspoon?”
“Uh ----- you know ----- the usual, sir.”
He cocked a bushy brow, his cigar spewing smoke like a steel mill's chimney. “And what – pray tell – is considered the 'usual'?”
“A lot of hard and diligent work, sir; and much more so with the terrible developments in Korea.”
Whip's stubby fingers drummed an annoyed cadence on his desk. “Goddamn those Chinese! I certainly hope that MacArthur teaches them a lesson they won't soon forget.”
I shifted uncomfortably in the chair, its leather creaking beneath my weight. “Briggs is with the First Marine Division, isn't he, sir?” I asked, thinking of poor Dwight, who I had often paired-up with for an assignment. I could picture the little man, shivering and scared shitless, as hordes of screaming Chinese bore down on him from all directions. Good Lord, he might already be dead and frozen as stiff as a board!
“Yes, yes he is. And here we are; warm and safe and comfy, without a clue as to what he may be going through.”
And puffing on Cuban c-gars and wearing bowties as big as Godzilla the frigging Butterfly, I mused to myself, hardly able to restrain from bursting out laughing.
“Is something funny, Witherspoon?”
“No, sir; what could be funny at a time like this?”
Whip snatched up a piece of paper and began to crumple it very slowly and methodically in his hands. “I have a good human interest story for you and I want you to start on it first thing in the morning. I'll allot some money out of the kitty to pay for two day's worth of lodging and food.”
“Uh ----- a human interest story, sir?”
“Did I stutter?”
“No, sir, you didn't.”
“There's a Civil War vet, living in the Allegany Mountains, a few miles west of Clifton Forge, just outside of a little hole-in-the-wall town called 'Snap Pea.' He resides in an old cabin, that's damn near in West Virginia, with no indoor plumbing or any other modern conveniences.”
I knew what was coming, my fingernails biting into the leather of the chair.
“His name is Alfred Singleton and the old bugger is one-hundred-five-years-of-age. There's not many of his breed left, you could count them on your fingers. And from what I hear; he's in excellent physical condition, with a mind as sharp as a tack.”
“What ----- uh ----- does this Singleton have to do with me?” I asked, all too aware of the answer.
Whip glared, eyes narrowing, his digits beating a drum roll atop the desk. “For one of my most prized reporters, you sure ask dumb questions. What do you think it has to do with you?”
“You want me to interview the man, to do a human interest piece on him.” I wiggled nervously, trying to muster up enough courage to object. “I don't know, sir; I think I would be better off, and you too, if I concentrated my attention on what's going on in Korea. You know; the First Marine Division fighting inch-by-bloody-inch to extricate itself from the Frozen Chosin.”
“Oh?” Whip's eyes took on the glint of two newly minted dimes, as he considered me over the rims of his spectacles. “Perhaps you would rather seek gainful employment at the News Leader, covering cooking contests and quilting bees.”
“The point is well taken, sir; I'll be off the first thing in the morning.”
“Before the sun rises o'er the mountains, as our paperboys are still turning in bed. And make certain that you take some pictures.”
“Yes, sir; I'll head down to payroll, first off, and pick up my traveling expenses.”
Indeed, I was up “before the sun rises o'er the mountains”, my Studebaker slicing through the darkness, as I rattled off profanities, between chain-smoking Camels and plying myself with a thermos of eye-opening black coffee. Of all the frigging luck - having to interview some crusty old codger, while the world might well be on the brink of WWIII! Why couldn't Whip have assigned one of the cub reporters, someone who cared not a rat's ass what story he drew, as long as he drew something? I turned on the dome light, squinting at a map, trying to see what intersecting roads would bring me closer to Clifton Forge, or the little town on the West Virginia border, with the crazy name of “Snap Pea.” I gave a wry chuckle, wondering if I should have brought along a pair of bib overalls, a corncob pipe and a pair of clogging shoes. Maybe a little shine in a mason jar.
I hit Clifton Forge at ten o'clock and by ten-forty, I was driving down the solitary dirt street of Snap Pea, my tires kicking up clouds of gritty yellow dust. There wasn't much to the burg; only a half dozen houses, a general store, a big two-storied building, known as Pritchett's Bed and Breakfast, and a Texaco station, that was still utilizing the old “Mae West” pumps of the 1920s. Hell, if I looked hard enough, I figured I might be able to find a hitching post and a water trough.
With little other choice, I parked my car, grabbed my suitcase and headed for Pritchett's, where I was greeted by a little old woman, with only three teeth and a face as wrinkled as a prune. She said that her name was “Sadie” and I liked her right off; the way she cackled a laugh, her rustic, down-to-earth charm and the manner in which she kept primping at her blue-tinged hair, all collected tightly into a schoolmarmish bun. I took a room on the second floor, laid down for an hour's nap and headed out to learn all that I could about Mister Alfred Singleton, one-hundred-and-five-years-young. I had no sooner cleared the door when I spotted an old man, rocking on the porch, a straw hat low over his eyes and a pipe clenched between his teeth.
“How's it going?” I inquired, sitting down in the rocker next to him.
“I've been worse, I've been better.”
“Nice day, isn't it?”
“I've seen worse, I've seen better.”
I lighted up a Camel with my Zippo, blowing out a near perfect ring of smoke. “You know a man by the name of Alfred Singleton?”
“I've known better men, I've known worse.”
I fell silent for a few moments, wondering on how to progress, when he peered at me, arching a thick white brow. “What's yer interest in ol' Alfred?”
“I'm a reporter from the Richmond Times-Dispatch, looking to do a story about him. You know; a human interest piece, probably for a Sunday edition.”
The old man gave me the once-over with a jaundiced eye. “You don't look like a reporter to me.”
“What's a reporter look like?”
“I dunno; a press card in the band of 'is hat, a pad an' pencil, maybe a Kodak.”
“That's a pretty fair description. I'm sorry for disappointing you, but the fact is; I am a reporter and I'm here to do a story on Alfred Singleton.”
“Uncle Alf,” he corrected. “That's what he's called 'round these parts.” The old man rubbed thoughtfully at his chin whiskers, his face turning solemn. “But I'd be careful goin' up to his place. He might mistake ya for a coon or a squirrel an' make a grab for his shotgun.”
“He doesn't see very well?”
“Nope, an' neither do I. You jus' wait a few years.”
“Well, how about giving me the directions to his place and I'll worry about the consequences.”
“Suit yerself, if you're feelin' like a back end fulla rock salt. Jus' pray he ain't usin' double-aught buck.”
“I'll take my chances. In my line of work, I can't afford to be bashful.”
The old man shrugged. You jus' head out on Main Street, here, due west, about five miles. When ya come to a big rock, which looks like a castle, there'll be a path that heads straight uphill for about a mile or so. When the path ends, you'll come to a clearing an' Alf's cabin will be at the far end. It's in a pretty bad state of disrepair; Uncle Alf's too old to keep up the maintenance. Hell, he's old enough to be my pappy.”
“And how old might you be?”
“There ain't no “might” about it; next month I'll turn eighty-three.” The old man creased his brows, thinking. “Nope, you had better make that eighty-four.” He took a few seconds more to think. “Yup; eighty-four, it is. Sometimes I have trouble keepin' track of time.”
“Well, thanks for your help, mister ----- uh -----.”
“My name's Seymour, Seymour Watson. Folks call me 'Doc'. Ya know; for that Doctor Watson feller, Sherlock Holmes's sidekick.”
“Okay, Doc; thanks a lot.”
As I was walking off, Doc loudly cleared his throat, stopping me short. “If ya wanna get on Uncle Alf's good side, ya best bring along a bag of jellybeans. He sure loves to pop jellybeans, 'specially the black kind.”
“I appreciate the tip. Does the general store carry them?”
“Last I heard.”
Bidding Doc a fond farewell, I headed for the general store, and, to the clerk's amazement, I cleaned out their entire stock of jellybeans - three pounds worth and a good third of them black. I didn't mention who I was buying them for, but when I was cashing out, the clerked winked and asked me to say hello to Uncle Alf from Jack and the family. I assured him that I would and he suddenly turned serious, warning me to be careful or I might be on the receiving end of a load of buckshot. I had shrugged off the first warning, but receiving a second, I started to get a little bit nervous. Where there's smoke, there's fire.
A half hour later, I was heading west along a rutted dirt road, so narrow in places that tree limbs were slapping my windshield and thumping along the roof.
This was God's country and I hoped that my last confession would protect me and that Father O'Malley hadn't smelt the liquor on my breath. After five miles, I started to watch for the rock, and, sure enough, it did resemble a castle - turrets and battlements and even a draw bridge-like rock, spanning a small creek. I grabbed my Baby Brownie Special and a notebook from the glove compartment and started up the path, which turned out to be a lot steeper than I had expected. If this was the only route to Uncle Alf's cabin, he must be in damn good shape for a hundred-years-plus-five. Before long, I was huffing and puffing and drenched with sweat, ruing all the hours spent behind my Smith-Corona and as many, perched atop a barstool.
A possum scuttled from the underbrush and raised itself on its haunches, its ugly snout sniffing at the air. I took a step back, my heart beating a mile-a-minute; being that I was a city boy, use to only dogs and cats, the critter might just have well been a twelve-foot grizzly. Not liking what it smelled, the possum turned and scurried back the way it had come.
I continued on my way and eventually reached the clearing, spotting Uncle Alf's cabin in the distance: more of a shanty, actually, made of unpainted lumber, with a rusty tin roof and a sagging front porch. Smoke was curling from a small pipe on its roof. I was heading across the clearing when I heard an ominous click that stopped me dead in my tracks.
“Jus' hold it right there, feller. One more step an' I'll likely send you to the promised land.”
That's' when I saw him, standing a few feet away, nearly hidden behind a large oak: a short, reed-thin man, with a thatch of snow-white hair and a matching handlebar moustache. The skin of his narrow face was as yellowed as ancient parchment, not a single wrinkle, only a few liver spots and a glossy scar, stretching from his right eye and down across a prominent cheekbone. He was clad in a plaid flannel shirt, baggy overalls and a pair of worn work boots. If I hadn't known his age, I could have easily mistaken him for eighty, maybe as young as seventy.
“Are you Uncle Alf?”
“Who were you expectin'; Robert E. Lee?” He stepped out, his gnarled hands brandishing a shotgun. “What's yer business up here, mister?” he asked, in a voice that was surprisingly strong and vibrant.
“My name's John Witherspoon. I'm a reporter from the Richmond Times-Dispatch.”
“Well, ya musta took one hell of a wrong turn.”
“My editor sent me up here to do a story on you.”
Uncle Alf chuckled. “A reporter for the Nashville Banner paid a visit, maybe a year back, and I sent him packin' right quick. So why should I make an exception for you?”
“Well, maybe because I'm one hell of a nice guy. Plus, I brought along a little gift.” I held up the bag of jellybeans, swaying it between thumb and forefinger. “I hear tell that you're fond of the black ones.”
Uncle Alf limped forward, squinting and aiming his shotgun toward the ground. Snatching the bag from my hand, he opened it and peered inside, a small, hesitant smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Well, now; you might have jus' earned yerself a few minutes of my precious time.” He popped a black jellybean into his mouth and savored it as someone would a piece of filet mignon or a hunk of buttered lobster. “Yup; maybe even a full hour. C'mon up to the porch.”
I followed the old veteran, noticing that he was limping along on a right leg that seemed as though it was unable to bend. As we neared the porch, a scrawny yellow dog trotted down its steps and circled me, sniffing at the cuffs of my trousers. Round and round it went, analyzing my scent, a gurgling growl lingering deep within its chest.
“Stonewall, you be good, now,” admonished Uncle Alf, shooing the mutt away with a hand.
“You didn't, by any chance, name him after Stonewall Jackson?”
“No 'chance' about it. Exceptin' for Gen'ral Lee, no greater man ever lived.” Uncle Alf struggled up the steps with his leg and motioned toward an old cane chair. “Sit on down an' make yerself comfortable. Now, what kinda story do ya have in mind?”
“You know; your service in the war, the battles you were in, some of the tough times and the scary things you witnessed.”
“Mister, the whole dang affair was scary; right from Bull Run clear through to Appomattox. That l'il police action in Korea ain't diddly-squat to what I saw an' went through. It's a 4-H fair in the comparison. You sit on down, I'll be out in a minute.”
The cane chair creaked and swayed and I thought, for a moment, that it was about to give out from under me. Old Stonewall curled up at my feet, resting his snout on a paw and cocking me a wary eye.
A few minutes later, Uncle Alf came back out - a beehive slouch hat perched atop his head, with what appeared to be a big moth-eaten hole, front-and-center. “This here hat is the very same one that I wore for the entire war.” He plucked it off his head and poked a finger through the hole, his expression turning dead serious. “A Yankee bullet did this; took it clean off my noggin, at Gettysburg.” In the blink of an eye, he produced a huge Bowie knife and threw it, causing me to wince as it stuck into the porch, only an inch from my foot. “I kilt a few Yanks with that ol' Arkansas pig-sticker.”
I gulped, nudging the big blade with my shoe. “That's ----- uh ----- quite a weapon.”
“That it is. I could pluck a hair from yer head an' split it clear down the middle.” He reached over and grabbed a musket, which had been leaning next to the door. “This, here, is a 'Mississippi' Rifle, U.S. Model Eighteen-Forty-One, fifty-eight caliber. This ol' baby gave me three years of good service. I still have its socket bayonet, inside.”
Boy, I had to say one thing; a few jellybeans sure went a long way in loosening up a tongue. I opened my notebook, quickly scribbling a few notes.
“I'd put my uniform on, homespun butternut, but its gettin' mighty worn. I keep it in my trunk, with a good supply of mothballs.” Uncle Alf plunked down in another cane chair, stretching out his leg as straight as a board. Wincing, he started to massage its knee. “Feels like rain, maybe as early as this evening.”
“Uh ----- is that a war wound?”
“From a piece of shrapnel, durin' Pickett's Charge.”
My heart started to thump. “No fooling; you were in Pickett's Charge?”
“Believe me, sonny; that is one thing I wouldn't fool about. I damn near made it o'er the stonewall, right alongside Gen'ral Armistead. Now, that was some slaughterfest, I'll tell you. I lost damn near all my friends, damn near all of 'em.” Uncle Alf looked away and I could swear there were tears in his eyes. “Many a good man died on that day. Pickett's Division was plumb cut to ribbons; he never forgave Bobby Lee for that fiasco. Ol' George held a grudge to his dying day.”
“How about you; did you hold any kind of grudge?”
“No, sir, I did not. I would have followed Bobby Lee clear through the gates of hell. A fine man, he was, an' one of the greatest generals that ever lived. Too bad he's not alive to give MacArthur a few pointers.”
“So after Gettysburg, you were out of the war?”
Uncle Alf reached into the bag, next to his chair, and popped a red jellybean into his mouth. “The hell you say. Two of my friends dragged me back to our lines an' I rode to Virginny in an ambulance wagon, where a surgeon saved my leg. Had a gimp, but my trigger finger an' spirits were as good as ever. I was at the Wilderness, Cold Harbor an' Petersburg; witnessed the laying down of arms at Appomattox.” Uncle Alf gave a hearty laugh, displaying a half dozen teeth, crooked and stained brown from tobacco. “We really gave the Yanks hell at Cold Harbor; mowin' the varmints down like wheat before the scythe. It was like Pickett's Charge in reverse.” He gingerly traced the scar that ran over his cheekbone. “Got this from a splinter of wood a Yankee bullet kicked loose from a tree. Hell, that was a pat on the noggin, compared to what those poor devils received.”
“I would like to get into some of the battles in more detail.”
Uncle Alf cocked his head, puckering his lips in thought. “Well, ya know; I'm of sound body, but my memory gives me a tad of trouble. Got an ol' diary, inside, that might be of some help.”
“Jesus, a diary; that would be great, just what the doctor ordered!”
“I don't cotton much to doctors. Haven't bothered with any, since that surgeon saved my leg. Don't get me wrong; he was a nice enough feller, but I jus' don't see eye-to-eye with any medical boys. Dentists or eye doctors neither. When a tooth goes bad, I jus' yank it out with a pair of pliers. I haven't had so much as a cold my whole life. I eat plenty of onions; they kill the germs.”
“But they cause bad breath.”
“Don't need good breath, livin' all by my lonesome. Stonewall don't care none; his mouth smells worse than mine.”
Suddenly I heard what sounded like a gunshot, followed by a metallic-like ping, and looked up to see a wash tub that was hanging on the porch, swaying, sunlight winking through a hole right through its center. In the manner of seconds, I was hugging the floorboards, my fedora landing a few feet away. Undisturbed, Stonewall gave a short yelp, his pink tongue darting out and licking my cheek.
“Jesus, Alf; someone just took a shot at us! Get down, get on down!”
“ Ah; there there's nutin' to worry about,” he said, letting loose with a long, gravelly laugh.
“It must be a nearsighted hunter, thinking we were a couple of deer. Either that, or you must have done somebody wrong, terribly wrong.”
“Naw; it was nutin' but ol' George Hastings. He ain't much of a hunter, but he's plenty nearsighted”
I peered up at Uncle Alf, still keeping low. “Who in the heck is George Hastings and why would he take a shot at us?”
“You can get back up an' sit down.”
I got to my feet and retrieved my hat, my eyes warily prowling the distant woods for the glint of a gun barrel. “Let me in on the secret; who is this Hastings guy?”
“He's a Civil War feller; jus' like me, who lives o'er in West Virginny. It ain't that far, only a few miles. He rode with the First West Virginia Cavalry, Third Division, under Judson Kilpatrick.” Uncle Alf made a face as though he was sucking on an extra sour lemon. “West Virginny was nutin' but a nest of Yankees, breakin' away from this state back in eighteen-sixty-three; damn bunch of traitors”
“Okay, but why in the blazes did he take a potshot at us? What's the deal?”
“He's a might younger than me, maybe a hundred-three. Every once an' awhile, he sneaks on over, with his ol' carbine, an' lets one loose in my direction. By the same token; I head on o'er his way, now an' then, an' fire one off in his direction.” Uncle Alf brayed a laugh and slapped his good knee. “It's jus' a l'il game we play; no harm done, no harm meant.”
“No harm done? Well, just suppose that one of you wounds the other, or maybe even kills the other?”
“Ah, there's no chance of that; we're both blind as bats at a distance. Hell, we've been playin' our l'il game since back in the Twenties. I gotta admit though; that was one good shot, him hittin' that wash tub, dead center an' all.”
I shook my head in disbelief.
“Next time, I'll make damn sure I give 'im a taste of his own medicine. But you have to promise me one thing, Whippoorwill, or whatever yer name is.”
“It's Witherspoon. Wi-ther-spoon.”
“Yeah, that's right; Wi-ther-spoon. You have to promise one thing; you've got to swear to me on the bible.”
“Promises don't come very easy to us reporters.”
“You mustn't write a thing about the game that me an' George play; not a single word. If you do, I'll walk clear to Richmond an' I won't be shootin' at any wash tub.”
“Okay, I promise, but it would be a juicy piece for my story.”
He stared at me long and hard, unblinking.
“I promise, I promise. I'm a man of my word.”
I talked with Uncle Alf an hour longer and took a swig of some moonshine, which hit my empty stomach like a flow of molten lava. Just before I left, he supplied me with his war diary, saying that I could return it at my convenience, and I took a few pictures with my Brownie; all with him holding his Mississippi Rifle and wearing his slouch hat and Bowie knife. He walked me to the head of the path, talking again about Cold Harbor, and Stonewall tailed me clear down to my car, running after me and barking, as I drove off.
Whip loved the pictures and was ecstatic over the diary, which chronicled everything from camp life to sentry duty to the horrors that Alf had experienced in the heat of battle. My story hit the next Sunday edition and drew rave reviews from readers and critics alike. A friend of mine, with the News Leader, informed me that his editor wished that he had thought of the idea before us.
A short four months later, Whip summoned me to his office and broke some news that I could not believe: two days previously, Uncle Alf was found sprawled on his front porch, with a bullet clear through his ticker. A murder investigation was now in progress, but, as of yet, the authorities had failed to find any meaningful clues. It was rumored that Stonewall had been found lying next to the body, whimpering and half starved, his drool soaking the old man's shirt. Of course, I knew immediately what had happened, but recalling my promise to Alf, I chose not to say a word. Whip ordered me to get up there as quick as I could to cover the news: that it would be a fantastic follow-up to my story, and, maybe, after a little snooping around, I might be able to come up with a likely suspect. I would go all right, but it would be out of respect and nothing more.
I got to Snap Pea in time to witness a funeral procession heading up its main street: a solemn, yet extravagant affair, which surely would have put a smile on old Alf's face. There was a high school brass band, playing “Dixie”; dozens of soldiers and local dignitaries; a convertible with three Civil War veterans; and finally - a long, shiny, black hearse, bearing Alf's coffin, draped with a Confederate flag. Hundreds of people were crowding the route, silent and respectful, nearly all waving miniature replicas of the Stars and Bars. Jumping out of my car, I followed the procession to the cemetery, the band switching into a jaunty “When Johnnie Comes marching Home.” At the cemetery, following many eulogies and a twenty-one-gun-salute, Uncle Alf's coffin was lowered gently into the hole, as the two dozen soldiers clicked their heels and snapped a salute. The floral arrangements were extraordinary, including one from the Governor; all big, colorful displays, shaped into everything from Alf's old regimental colors to crossed muskets and artillery pieces!
I noticed that one of the veterans had lingered behind, head bowed and fedora clasped in his hands: a small, stooped-shouldered man, boasting a snowy-white goatee, dressed in a three-piece black suit, with a GAR ribbon pinned to its breast. For a moment, it looked as though he might collapse, but he quickly righted himself, trying to look dignified for anyone who might be watching. I knew who he was and I badly wanted to meet him, to offer my sympathy and lighten his burden.
“Mister Hastings, Mister George Hastings?”
The old man turned, finally placing his fedora atop a head that was nearly hairless and spattered with liver spots. “Yes, I'm George Hastings.”
“Sir, I know that you didn't mean it, that it was all a terrible accident.”
His pale blue eyes blinked.
“I know about the little game that you and Alf used to play.”
The eyes blinked more rapidly, shimmering with tears. “How ----- how do you -----?”
“I was there, maybe four months ago, on Alf's porch; when your bullet put a whole, dead center, through his wash tub.”
“Oh my ----- oh my, the police will send me to prison.”
“No, sir; nobody's going to send you to prison, not at your age, not for an unfortunate accident.” He wobbled and I held out my hand to support him. “And believe me; I'm not going to say a word, I promised Alf.”
His body shook with a sob, and, then, he straightened his shoulders and jutted out his chin, his lips quivering slightly with emotion. “Do you think ----- Do you think that Alf will forgive me?”
“He's already forgiven you; I'm almost certain of that.” I placed an arm around George's shoulder and started to lead him off. “Now, suppose you tell me a little bit about the war, about your service with the First West Virginia Cavalry.”
He brightened up quickly, finally smiling. “I served under Judson Kilpatrick, the old war horse. You know what everyone called us?”
“No, sir, I don't.”
“Kil-Cavalry. Ya know; short for Kilpatrick and cavalry.”
We walked off toward Snap Pea - George thankful for my interest and me thankful for having saved him from his conscience.