Incident At Jonesborough

Introduction

Peter Weiss was a mama’s boy. There was no mistake about that. And while his mother did her very best to raise Peter to be considerate, polite and a gentleman in every sense of the word, the little boy learned early on that he could have pretty much anything he wanted. He was spoiled, but lovingly so.

Mary Ann Weiss gave birth much later than was the custom in the latter half of the nineteenth century. She was thirty-nine when she and Auggie, her husband, discovered that they were to become parents. But even after Peter was born, time was something she did not give much thought to—until one day, when Peter was four, a woman at the store stopped her to tell her that she had a cute grandson.

That night, she went home and looked in the mirror. Where had all those lines come from? And the grey hair? How could she look so old and yet feel so young inside?

She had not intended on having children, or getting married, for that matter. But then she met Auggie—August Weiss. Auggie had come to the Midwest from Prussia. Like so many others, he had heard that America was the land of dreams, where riches and opportunity were everywhere. He soon discovered that while there were plenty of opportunities, most of them did not pay well—not to an uneducated man with a working class pedigree who spoke broken English.

So he got a job in the local mine, setting the dynamite charges to strip the earth of the iron ore that fed the factories around the Great Lakes region as the Industrial Age came to maturity. The hours were long, the work was deafening, and there was little left over after paying the bills. But that was okay, because now he had her.

She had been working in the cheese shop at the town’s only hotel at the time, and Auggie was fifteen years her junior. That did not matter, for love is not only blind, it does not differentiate when it comes to age. Perhaps it was the kind expression on his face, or the gentle awkwardness around her, or his dry sense of humor, or even the fact that he was a wonderful cook, but her connection with Auggie was immediate. She recognized that they were soul mates.

He called her schnuckelchen, or cutie pie. No one had ever fawned over her the way Auggie had, and she was startled by the realization that such a relationship could fill a void she had ignored for much of her life. Auggie told her she was beautiful. He even said he did not mind that she so was large—she weighed close to two hundred and ten pounds at the time, and that was before the fifty or so she gained while pregnant with Peter—because she reminded him of his mother and grandmother, large women too.

The Lord meant for us to be one, Auggie had told her one evening in his broken English as they shared a wheel of her limburger cheese.

She could not argue with his observation. She knew her Bible. God joins together the man and the woman. They become one. No one—and nothing—was to bring them apart.

They were married on a warm September Saturday morning at a small non-denominational chapel just off Catawba Street. It was a small ceremony. The two of them, the minister and a witness. She did not have family, and all Auggie’s kinfolk were still back in the Old Country.

Peter was born the following spring, three weeks early. He was so tiny—four pounds, eleven ounces—but otherwise healthy. Remarkable, considering she was forty years old at the time—old enough to be a grandma.

She would never forget the first time she held the little boy, how his tiny fist wrapped around her index finger. Her heart melted.

At the age of five, Peter possessed his father’s looks. He was skinny and small framed like Auggie. He also had his father’s blue eyes and blonde hair. But he had her freckles and her smile. He was intensely curious, always asking questions. He wanted to know the answer to everything.

It was why she had taken him to the parade in town that day.

Little Peter had never seen a parade. The town rarely held them. In fact, the last time there was a parade was in 1875—the tenth anniversary of the end of the Civil War.

The purpose of the parade that day was to celebrate the twenty-fifth anniversary of the war’s end.

She resisted taking him, but the boy was insistent. He heard about it while listening to his father read the story in the newspaper, and about who would be there. There was no way she could say no.

William Tecumseh Sherman himself would attend. He was the hero of the Atlanta Campaign and the March to the Sea, the man who brought warfare into the modern age.

Peter and his parents had come to town two hours before the rest of the crowd showed up to find the perfect spot along the main street. Peter wore his new blue and white sailor’s suit. He saw it at the general store a month earlier and, even though it cost a day’s wages, his mother bought it for him. She wore the only nice dress she had—the same one she wore to her wedding in the little chapel nearly six years earlier. Thankfully, there had been enough material to let out the waist.

Who’s that man, Mama? the boy asked, as the local remnant of the Grand Army of the Republic marched past them. He pointed to one man in Union blue who had outgrown his uniform decades earlier and who was leading the group, far out of step with the rest of the men.

And look at that cannon. Can it shoot far? Can it Mama?

She did not have a clue.

"Liebchen, liebchen," she said to the boy, using the German word for sweetheart that she had learned from her husband.

So many questions.

Then there he was—General Sherman himself.

Mama, Mama, young Peter continued, pointing at the general’s horse.

Is that the same horse he rode in the war? Is it a fast horse? Look at his sword, Mama. Is it sharp? Did he ever stab anyone with it? Do you think there’s still blood on it?

Land sakes, she said, such questions. Such an imagination!

She forgot about the boy for a moment and took a good look at Sherman. She was at once struck by how old he appeared. While it had been over twenty-five years since she saw him in person, she had seen plenty of photographs of Sherman since then. Even though he retired from the army six years earlier in 1884, the newspapers often carried photographs of the old general, who was still well known throughout the country. But they always made him seem larger than life, which she knew was not the case.

No detail escaped her as he rode by on horseback along the downtown parade route. The soot-colored grey of his beard, the deep, horizontal lines across his forehead. His hairline had receded—a point she took note of when he removed his hat to the cheering crowd—and his form was slightly stooped. It reminded her that people got older and that brought about change. Sherman, she concluded, had to have been at least seventy years old.

Still, there was an aura about him that commanded attention, as it had so many times on the battlefield. He rode by so close that she could easily have called out to him, but she decided against doing so. He certainly would not have recognized her. Not after more than a quarter of a century.

The veterans treat the retired general as though he were a god, she thought. She watched him shake hands with the town’s former Civil War soldiers at a ceremony in the park after the parade. They slapped him on the back like he was an old friend, and smiling, he reciprocated.

The speeches were predictable but rousing—even inspiring. The old men spoke of valor and of harmony, and of God’s providence and protection. Theirs was a noble cause, the last noble cause, preserving the unity of the United States of America.

They finished their speeches, vowing that there would never be another civil war. Never.

That evening, after Peter had his bath, said his prayers and climbed into bed, he thanked his mother for taking him to see the parade.

It was ever so wonderful! he said, beaming up at her from beneath the covers, clutching a small toy horse that his father had carved from a piece of pine. He yawned, as it was nearly an hour past his normal bedtime, before adding, I reckon this was the best day of my entire life!

She looked down and smiled, her heart sinking to the depths of her stomach. She knew that he would become an adult before long and leave her and Auggie, perhaps to fight in a war himself. She could not imagine life without him and she said a silent thank you to God.

I’m glad you had fun today, she finally managed, tears forming in her eyes as she bent down to kiss his hair, still wet from his bath.

Mama? he asked.

Yes, liebchen?

Do you remember what it was like back then? During the war?

She did not say anything at first, but then she nodded.

Yes. Yes, I do, she whispered.

Did you know any Army men, like General Sherman?

She was not going to tell him. She had promised herself years ago that she would never talk about the war. Not to him. But she had always had a difficult time telling her son no, so the words just came out.

I knew General Sherman. Back then, I mean.

She was shocked that she had chosen to reveal that particular information, and she was at a loss to explain exactly why she did.

Peter’s eyes grew wide.

You knew General Sherman, Mama? You really did?

I really did, she answered.

Was he just about the bravest Army man you ever knew, Mama? Was he? Was he?

She could have lied and left it at that. But she did not.

No, no he wasn’t, little man.

"Who was, Mama? Who was the bravest Army man you knew? Tell me, Mama. Pleeeeeease tell me!"

Again, she was not going to answer, but the words just came out.

His… his name was Peter.

Peter! said the boy excitedly. Peter? Peter, like me? Was his name Peter Weiss, like my name, Mama?

No, son, she said.

Was he famous, Mama—like General Sherman?

No he wasn’t. But you don’t have to be famous to have an impact on people.

The boy looked up at his mother with an expression of genuine confusion.

Tell me about him, Mama.

So she did, the best she could.

Chapter 1

Peter Kellery stepped off the railcar at the train station in Indianapolis, Indiana, on a sunny afternoon in mid-April 1864 and immediately began scanning the crowd that had gathered to await the train’s arrival. It had been a long journey, beginning in Chattanooga, Tennessee, two days before, and he had not slept well. Most of the soldiers on the train had not. Still, he did not feel tired. Not at all. He was grateful that the trip was over and that he could see the sun again, which felt warm against his face.

He had returned home to Indiana. It would be a good day, but where was Emma? Her letter said that she would meet him at the station. It had been two years since they saw each other. Perhaps she did not recognize him… or perhaps she was in the crowd and he did not recognize her.

The last time Peter was in Indianapolis was two summers earlier, as an eighteen-year-old new Army recruit. He recalled marveling at how gigantic the city was compared to his hometown of Angola, nearly two hundred miles to the north, and he had been amazed at how busy everyone seemed to be. But a lot had changed since had left. Much of the idealism he had in 1862 had vanished.

War had a way of doing that. The last year had been particularly bloody, beginning in late spring with the grueling Tullahoma Campaign in central Tennessee, where he and others, under the command of Major General William Rosecrans, succeeded in driving the Confederate Army of Tennessee back towards the Georgia border. The victory had come at great cost.

Sadly, it did not end there. There was the disastrous Union defeat at Chickamauga in August and September, followed by the siege of Chattanooga in November, and the most brutal of all the battles—Missionary Ridge. And then there was his capture by the Confederates in January. If not for a miraculous escape, there was a good chance he would have been dead.

How had he managed to stay alive these past two years? He had seen many of his friends die. Too many. He recalled how optimistic he had been two years earlier, hoping the war would be over quickly. When would it end, and would he live to see it end? Would his participation make any difference, or would he become just another faceless, nameless forgotten soul in the years to come?

He had so many questions, but the answers did not matter on that day. The only thing Peter cared about was locating Emma—Emma Thompson. Where was she? Was he early? Late? He wished he knew the hour of the day. Someday he would buy a watch. A nice one.

There were so many people on the platform that Peter could not turn to see the station clock, so he turned toward a short, stocky man with a large grey mustache to ask the time.

The man was dressed in an immaculate black suit, a top hat and was carrying a black satchel. He too had been on the train, but he rode in one of the brand new luxury Pullman cars at the rear, not in a boxcar like Peter and the other soldiers who also populated the platform. The man reached into his vest pocket, looking at his watch.

It’s eight forty-five.

That explains it, Peter thought. The train had arrived nearly thirty minutes early. He would just have to wait.

Thank you, Peter smiled.

My pleasure, son, the man responded. It’s the least I could do for one of our military men. You all are doing a fine job out there. Fine job. Where have you seen action?

Peter recounted his most recent battles.

And what brings you to our fair city?

I’m on leave, Peter confessed, without going into details. But apparently my party has not yet arrived because the train came in early.

Yes, I’m afraid I face the same predicament. I had told my driver to pick me up at nine o’clock. He knows that I am a very precise man, so I too shall just have to wait.

At that, the man slapped Peter on the back.

We will just wait together, son. At least it is a beautiful day.

That it is, Peter nodded. That it is.

It’s the Jews, you know, the man muttered.

Excuse me? Peter asked, unsure if he heard the man correctly.

The Jews! They run the railroads. That’s what I like about the Jews. They’re very efficient. The trains in the North are always on time or, in our case, early.

Peter did not respond. The last thing he wanted was to continue this conversation.