Captain Latane

Captain Latane

by Bruce Wenner

Copyright 2015 Bruce Wenner

Smashwords Edition

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Forward

In 1862, early in the American Civil War, President Abraham Lincoln sent an army into Virginia to capture the Confederate capitol at Richmond and end the bloody rebellion. The Yankees, commanded by General George McClellan, approached the city from the east and were at the gates of Richmond by summer. Before they could lay siege to the city, the bold calvary commander, Jeb Stuart, was sent out to reconnoiter what was going on behind the Union lines.

Stuart took a thousand men and swept all the way around the Yankee army, cutting lines of communications and supply, taking prisoners, gathering vital information, and then returned to Richmond in full glory, parading up Main Street to the adulation of the cheering citizens. The daring raid took three days; the men riding over a hundred desperate miles, and it elevated the southern calvarymen into the realm of legend. During this famous ride the Rebels lost but one man killed.

His name was Captain William Latane.

1 - Saturday, June 30, 1999

There was a special room in Harry Hoffman's house that contained all of his collection of Civil War books and memorabilia, which was quite extensive. There were volumes upon volumes of texts, battle atlases, maps, and diaries. There were photographs and letters, magazines and journals. He had flags and muskets and swords and pistols and canteens and minie-balls galore.

It was the library of a serious Civil War buff

Harry's housekeeper walked past the windows of the room as she reported to work in the morning. Selma was a middle-aged, African-American woman that came around every other day to clean up after the retired widower. She had been doing so for about ten years and it had been a nice arrangement, Mr. Hoffman being quite generous, and not very demanding. They had become friends, sharing morning coffee and conversation, and it was a casual and pleasant situation in all ways.

As time passed she had come to see less and less of the old man, most of his time being spent in his little war museum.

Though Selma was raised here on the eastern side of Richmond where so much of the fighting of the Civil War had taken place, she had no interest in the history of that conflict at all, and thought that Harry was foolish and trifling for being so fascinated by it.

When he would say to her excitedly with book and map in hand that General Hood's regiment had probably camped out back near the creek, she would say, Hmmm, that’s nice. Then she always found something to do quickly and escaped his nonsensical ramblings about some old long-dead cracker that didn’t mean anything to her and never would.

She was asked to stay out of the library altogether unless she desired to study his maps and texts, which she quickly declined to ever do, as if he had asked her to hold a shrunken head. And when the old man's daughter would phone the house to see how her dad was doing Selma would most often say that her father was in dat room.

Eventually he was always in dat room, it seemed. She would tap on the door and tell him that his lunch was ready, but usually he just grunted a thank you from inside and said he wasn't hungry. Selma missed his company and was genuinely concerned about him, and told his daughter Debbie this every time she called.

What he be doin up in dat room all day long? she asked. Can't be no book in dare he ain't read a hunder'd time over.

Her father had always been a sensible and solid man, though he was much quieter since the death of his wife a few years ago. Debbie felt that the room was a diversion from his loneliness and she saw no harm in his becoming a Civil War buff. She was more amused than alarmed by Selma's frustrations.

Lord have mercy, Selma said. It’s not good for a man’s mind.

On this day Selma couldn't get even a grunt from behind that door. She peeked inside at the mess of books and papers but he was nowhere to be found. His car was in the drive, his old truck by the shed, so she concluded that he was out for a walk in the woods and fields and was happy for it. He needed the air.

She went about her work, anxious to visit with him when he returned. She hadn't noticed that the long gray uniform that hung in the library was gone, or that Rozanne, the old chestnut mare, wasn't in her field behind the shed.

2

Down in the city of Richmond, in a rough neighborhood on the south side of town, three greasy and dirty men were talking about another greasy and dirty man they wanted very much would just disappear.

The man they spoke of was called Pepper, and he lie before them now, passed-out drunk on the filthy, worn-out linoleum of the kitchen floor. Looking down at the sloppy, slumbering man, the leader of this sorry outfit, Rick, said to the others, I want that son-of-a-bitch outta here.

We gonna take that son-of-a-bitch out to the country 'for he come round, and dump his ass, Rick said.

Leave him? one of the men asked.

Leave the son-of-a-bitch where he don't never come back, Rick said. Pepper snorted, but remained asleep on the floor.

Put his ass in the truck, Rick ordered.

Now? they asked.

Put his ass in the truck, goddammit, Rick snapped, and the two men went fumbling about over Pepper's unconscious body.

These were rough alcohol-soaked men, dressed in the same work clothes they had worn for days, perhaps years. Bad skin, bad teeth, and badly educated, they scrounged a hard existence of menial, spotty work, and drew various government allowances that were spent mostly on liquor in the dingy beer gardens down on Jeff Davis Highway.

In a world of trailer parks and shabby neighborhoods set hard against the tobacco factories and chemical plants of the Southside, they were the bottom feeders of the city, the catfish in this muddy, gray, polluted pond where senseless arguments were still settled with fists or knives in parking lots on Saturday nights, and their bizarre religion was Nascar racing on Sunday afternoons. They carried what little cash they ever had in their pockets, and it was to be defended to the last drop of blood from their scrawny, beer-gutted, freckle-skinned bodies.

Professing to be experts at all trades, they scraped odd jobs from here and there, and if paid in advance they invariably vanished before completion. And if ever seen again by the employer they would take offense at any suggestion they had somehow shirked their duty, and propose that their honor be defended in one of those small, pot-holed, weedy, littered, parking lots that seemed to be everywhere on the shattered landscape.

Though the place in which they lived needed every sort of repair imaginable, like the ones to either side, and in a several block radius, and they certainly had tons of free time and most all of the tools required to fix it, the notion of doing any sort of work at this house was a thought that never crossed anyone's mind, and apparently hadn't for over fifty years.

Hauling the dead weight of Pepper's unconscious body out of the back door and down the rickety, leaning steps took tremendous exertion on the part of the grunting men, and Rick impatiently barked, What the hell's goin on? Get him down here, dammit.

When they paused halfway to adjust their holds, they heard Rick yell in frustration, Move his fat ass, God damn you.

This caused them to lurch and trip, and Pepper was essentially dragged down the stairs, the man on the bottom voicing his anger at doing most of the work until Rick told the both of them to shut the damn hell up.

The three of them together lifted Pepper by his limbs and carried him to the old pick-up, and Mark opened the side door.

Not in there, in the back, you goddamn asshole, Rick sneered, and they struggled to lift the body over the side and then dumped it roughly into the trash laden bed of the rusted truck.

Panting and sweaty, Rick said to Mark, What the hell you wanna put him up inside for?

Mark looked at him blankly, and could not respond.

God dammit, Rick said.

They struggled slowly back up the staircase, huffing and sweating in the stifling morning humidity that was always present, and when B.J. put his hand against the brick wall, he imprinted himself with the black soot that had accumulated over the last century, a grime that gave the once grand building a deep, dirty tone of red, as if the very colors in this hellish place were to be faded out. He wiped the smudge on his green work pants, and it blended nicely with those that had come before it.

Commenting on the bulk they had just hefted, Rick said, Ain't that a useless sack a shit?

Having done what for them constituted a full day’s labor, they milled around the kitchen not knowing how to plunge into the next phase of the operation. Mark opened the ancient refrigerator, which had been painted a flat lime-green by brush in some previous decade, and announced that there were four beers. He pulled three cans off the plastic holder and passed them round.

Where we gonna take him? he asked. Powhattan?

No, Rick said. We'll take the fat bastard over the river. If he wants to get back he'll have to fuckin swim.

He spit on the floor as Mark and B.J. laughed at the cleverness of the plan.

Like to see that fat sombitch try to swim the river, B.J. said.

Soon after they went down and piled in the truck, Rick hesitating before climbing inside to rip out a terrible fart.

Yer voice has changed, but yer breath's still the same, B.J. commented.

That's real funny, you dumbass, said Mark.

To B.J. it was, and he continued to laugh quietly.

Yer a stupid son-of-a-bitch, I swear, said Mark.

Who stupid? B.J. asked.

You stupid, that's who stupid, Mark said.

Rick told them both to shut the damn hell up, that he wasn't going to listen to that bullshit all day.

The truck stalled four or five times before it ground into reverse and swung back into the alley. It stalled again before finding first gear, but then came to life and roared away.

They rolled over the Mayo Bridge and cut under the interstates and railroad bridges, making their way to Main Street and eastward out of town, Pepper’s comatose body bumping on the hard rusty steel of the old truck-bed, the bits of paper and trash blowing around his bloated head.

3

Debbie rang her father's house and Selma answered the phone, happy to report that Harry was not in the little room, and was apparently out for a stroll in the fields. The strange notion that he could be injured or having a heart attack crossed Debbie's mind, and she asked Selma to call her when he came back.

She said that with her son Little Harry she was thinking about taking a drive out that way, but if he was going to be out or napping it might not be a good time. Selma said she would call as soon as her dad returned.

He probably lookin for some ol thing in the dirt, she said. Like dat room ain't got nough dat ol junk.

4

Rick pulled over at a 7-Eleven and told B.J. to hurry in and get a six-pack of beer while he kept the truck running. After B.J. left the truck to do this, Mark talked about how stupid B.J. was until he returned. Before opening the truck door to allow him back in, Mark said through the window, Where you been, you dumb shit? And they started their insulting banter over nothing again until Rick told them to shut the hell up and get in the goddamn truck.

Riding down the road, Mark complained to B.J. after a long pull on his can of beer. Goddamn shit's warmer'n piss, you fuckin asshole, he said. Why didn’t you get the shit out of the damn coolers?

It come from the damn cooler you dumb-fuck, B.J. answered.

Jesus Christ, you’re a stupid ass, Mark said.

And they bounced along in the squeaking, thumping, gurgling truck.

5

Selma had finished cleaning the upstairs and brought Harry's laundry down and sorted it and began washing it. While the cycle was running she fixed a container of tea to set in the sun and went outside to put it on the table down in the yard. She looked out over the field beyond to the trees, half expecting to see Harry leaning over, poking around in the dirt. But nothing stirred to her gaze, and she noticed that Rozanne was not in the field either.

Guessing that the horse was in her stall eating, she walked around to the shed-barn building and went inside, but the old mare was not to be seen. Putting her hand over her eyes to shade them, she spied the whole of the field beyond and satisfied herself that the horse was gone as well. It surprised her that Harry would be riding. As far as she knew he hadn't been on the horse for years, and she had reckoned that his riding days were over.

Selma knew that Debbie was worried about her father getting hurt on Rozanne, and had talked to him about not riding her anymore. Though he refused to promise, he seldom disappointed his daughter, and so the saddle had been slung over the post for ages.

But not today.

6

The skinny, frail looking Park Ranger stood before s small group of people and continued to explain the slaughter that had taken place on the gentle slope of the long field before them some hundred and forty years before.

The attacks were disjointed and poorly coordinated that afternoon, he said, and regiment after regiment came forward toward these guns, stretched across the road and beyond, hub to hub. He tapped the wheel of one of the Napoleon twelve-pounders beside him, and turned into the direction of the barrel.

On they came, into the withering canister and shot, line after line of men in butternut, to be cut down like chaffs of wheat before the scythe.

Beside this sightseer group were men in a makeshift camp; re-enactors in their authentic uniforms of the Civil War, polishing their muskets, and smoking corncob pipes. After the ranger completed his lecture on the Battle of Malvern Hill, one of the tourists asked about the camp, and was told that they were there for the living history program and would demonstrate camp life and musketry today, with a cannon firing demonstration tomorrow morning and afternoon.

Are they going to fire one of these? a man asked, pointing to one of the old cannons.

No sir, the ranger said. These are actual cannon from the war, and they are in-operable. They have their own authentic cannon that they will use.

He said that he hoped they would stick around to enjoy the demonstrations, and encouraged them to see the other sites in the Battlefield Park system

They paid no attention to the rusty old truck with three beer-burping men up front that bounced down the road beside them.

7

Selma went back inside and put the laundry in a basket and brought it out to the clothesline. She kept an eye out for Harry while she pinned it up to dry in the sweltering sun.

8

The pick-up truck took a series of turns onto more obscure country roads that all seemed exactly the same, just as they had to the fumbling Union Army so many years ago. B.J. asked if anyone knew where they were and Mark told him they were in China and called him a stupid dumbass.

Rick slowed down and started looking out for a drop off place. He came upon a spot where he could pull over onto the shoulder of the road without putting his tires in the drainage ditch. B.J. asked if this was where they were going to dump Pepper and Mark leaned into his face and said loudly, Duh.

They followed Rick's lead and got out of the pick-up.

Damn, Mark said, that sombitch still out cold, man.

Rick farted again, two crisp blasts, and then told the two men to get Pepper out of the truck. With a groan and yet another blast of foul wind he urinated into the weeds as Mark and B.J. climbed into the bed of the pick-up and started dragging the body through the garbage.

Drop the tailgate, shit-fer-brains, Mark said to B.J.

Why don't you do it? B.J. said.

Eat me, ya faggot, Mark said.

Rick snorted and hocked up a big ball of phlegm and told them again to get the man out of the goddamn truck. Mark hopped down and dropped the tailgate, cussing B.J. for being so stupid and lazy, and suggested they ought to leave his ass out here as well.

Grabbing hold of Peppers ankles, Rick and Mark pulled the body back until B.J. lifted him by his armpits to a sitting position on the tailgate.

Pepper started to grunt and rolled his head as if coming awake, then became limp again and would have fallen backward had not B.J. been there to prop him up. Rick gave instructions to the men and they eventually had the wasted fellow standing between them, his arms looped over their shoulders in the way one would carry a player with a broken leg off of a football field.

Cussing the heat and the bugs and each other, they transported Pepper through the weeds and scrub, following Rick into the piney woods.

They went some distance into the forest until they came to a small creek bed. The sides of the creek dropped off about three feet to a tiny stream of water. Here was the place they would depose of the worthless man and Rick told his companions to hold him up steady on the bank. Then he reared back and gave the unconscious man a ferocious blow to the face that knocked him out of the hold upon him, and sent him reeling into the small stream below.

God damn! Mark said with great pleasure, You knocked the livin shit out of him.

Shaking his injured hand, Rick told them to get the wallet out of Pepper's pants pocket. B.J. rolled the body over enough to allow Mark to fish the billfold out of the soaking rear pocket.

Laughing excitedly, the two men started back for the pick-up, following Rick, searching the contents of the wallet as they walked along. They discarded each item onto the ground as they walked; driver’s license, photographs, scraps of paper, and old ragged business cards of people and places unknown.

Mark made B.J. sit in the middle this time, and after handing to Rick the three dollars taken from the stolen wallet he flung the empty billfold out of the open window and into the brush like a Frisbee.

9

Selma was doing the dishes in the kitchen sink and watching an old movie on the small television when the phone rang. It was Debbie again, and she asked had her father returned from his walk and could she talk to him.

I ain't seen him yet, said Selma, and I gots to say he be off on that horse, least hows I expeck so, cause I ain't seen it nowheres neither.

Are you kidding me? Debbie asked.

She ain't in the stall.

Alright, Debbie said. We're gonna come on out anyway. Is there anything I can get at the store?

No, I don't think so, Selma said. They's some ham slices best be used up before they spoil, if that be okay for supper.

Alright then, we'll be along shortly. And when he comes back you tell him I'm mad at him.

He’ll be along alright, Selma said.

I hope so. I told him I didn't want him riding Rozanne anymore.

I know it.

He's too old for that now.

You right.

He falls off that horse he'll be hurt bad.

You right bout that too.

Alright then.

They said goodbye and Selma leaned to the window and peered out to the distant treeline.

10

Captain Latane wasn't sure what he saw in the creekbed before him. He reined Rozanne to a stop and looked closer at the body lying sprawled in the shallow water. Then he nudged the old mare nearer to the man and dismounted, his boots sinking into the sandy mud.

With great effort he tried to pull Pepper out of the water, but could only move him slightly. He bent over the man's face and noticed a trickle of blood on the corner of his mouth. Shaking him, he called out for the man to wake up, and Pepper moaned softly and opened his eyes.

Good, said the captain. You're alive.

He went to his saddlebag and removed a metal flask of bourbon, which he uncapped and brought to the man. He lifted his head slightly and poured a few drops into the swollen mouth. Pepper coughed and opened his eyes again, this time wider, and looked up blinking.

What’s your name, soldier? Latane asked.

Pepper said, What?

What is your name? the captain asked again. And to what regiment do you belong?

Huh? Pepper asked, snapping his head side to side and blinking his bloodshot eyes. He put fingers on his jaw tenderly and flexed his mouth open and shut.

Come on, Latane said. See if you can get out of this water.

Pepper leaned up on his elbows and looked around him. He was panting hard, out of breath, and Latane got behind him and nudged him into a sitting position.

Get out of the water, he told him. I was wounded myself at Hall’s Shop, and by God if it hadn’t been for the Ladies of Hanover that took me in and got me strait I wouldn’t be here today. Those precious angels are the reason we’re out here, really. It’s the sublime beauty and honor of women like that that we fight this damn war. Now sit up, soldier.

Pepper struggled until he was in the soft mud and sand and sat there, swatting mosquitoes from his face and rubbing his eyes. He flexed his painful jaw again.

Where am I? he asked. Who are you?

Captain William Latane, the officer said. Essex Light Dragoons. Fourth Virginia Calvary.

Rozanne snorted and Pepper flinched.

I ask again, soldier, Latane said, who are you and to which regiment do you belong?

What’s that? Pepper asked.

For Christ's sake man, you've got to pull yourself together, the captain said. There isn't time for this.

I don't know what you're talkin about, Pepper said. Where am I? How’d I get here?

Latane exhaled and shook his head with disgust.

Have you seen Rick and them boys? Pepper asked, and looked around him at the surrounding woods.

I've seen noone, the captain answered.

This don't make no sense, Pepper said.

Captain Latane moved to his horse and Pepper looked up and down at the man in his gray uniform and high boots and spurs. The old man removed his plumed hat and beat it on his thigh, then placed it back on his head.

What's goin on? Pepper asked.

My sentiments exactly, Latane said.

He took a strip of beef jerky and a piece of hardtack out of his saddlebag and slipped the canteen off the saddle horn.

What's with the sword? Pepper asked.

Latane brought the food and water over to Pepper and handed them to him. Here, he said. Eat this.

Pepper looked at the unusual food items and then up at the strange man.

The captain said, I can only assume that you have been wounded in some sort of skirmish with McClellan's advance units. This is why you must get your wits together and tell me what has happened to you.

I'm sorry, man, Pepper said. You lost me.

You'll address me as 'Sir', damn you! Latane shouted. I'm a commissioned officer in the Fourth Virginia Calvary and will be treated with the respect due my station. Now I ask you once again; who are you, to what unit do you belong, and how did you come to be lying in this stream?

Pepper looked blankly at the officer, mouth open.

Dammit, said the captain, and he stepped over to his horse and removed his plumed hat again, setting it over the saddle-horn.

Perhaps you're no wounded patriot at all, he said, but a shirking coward who has fled in the face of the enemy.

Removing his Colt revolver from his holster he said, If that be the case I am within my rights to shoot you here and now and be done with it.

Pepper fumbled with the food in his hands and said, Look Mister, I don't want no trouble.

Sir! Damn you! You'll call me Sir or Captain!

Latane stepped in front of Pepper with the pistol held upward and Pepper said, Yes sir. Captain, sir.

Now identify yourself this instant, Latane demanded.

I'm Pepper. Pepper's my name. I don't want no trouble.

I don't want no trouble, Sir! Latane thundered.

I don’t want no trouble, sir, the frightened man repeated. No, sir.

11

The re-enactors stood in a line facing the long sloping field before them and moved their muskets sluggishly with each instruction their officer commanded. When he yelled Fire their replica Springfield muskets boomed unevenly, and cracked out a burst of smoke that shot from the barrels and puffed into their faces. The five tourists applauded quietly.

12

Latane straightened up and turned at the very faint sound, which resembled a bedsheet being ripped apart.

Enough of this, he said, and moved quickly to his horse while replacing his pistol to his holster and putting the long plumed hat back on his gray head.

Fall in Private Peppers, he said as he mounted. There's work to be done and whatever your situation was before, you'll have ample opportunity to redeem yourself before this day is through.

Pepper stood up with some