Monster Unleashed
Henry pushed his horse as hard as he dared before reining her in, slowing to a stop and dismounting. Upon leaving the plantation, he could think of nothing except putting as much distance as possible between himself and the carnage he had wrought. He knew his company was on the march to meet up with Longstreet, but Henry had no desire to catch up to them yet, so he headed in the opposite direction. With his feet on solid ground, he stumbled a few steps before falling to his knees and retching into the weeds at the side of the road. He heaved until there was nothing left, yet his body still continued through the motions for a time, reaping no fruits for its labor.
When his stomach finally quieted and he was left with his haggard breathing, Henry realized he was crying. He had never killed in cold blood before and order or not, that is what he had done. He had been in skirmishes, had fired into the enemy and seen a man fall from it. He had grappled in close quarters knowing that it was him or the other man. Kill in order to survive. Still, the goal had never been outright death. They were given loftier goals: hold the bridge, take the hill, push the enemy back; goals that made the falling of men an unfortunate byproduct but not the intended mission, which made the messy affair more palatable. In striving for the good of the whole, the sin of the individual was forgotten and forgiven.
This was different. He had walked into a child’s nursery, a place of sanctuary and respite, and spilled the blood of the innocents who played there. What he had done, what he had been ordered to do, was not for the good of the whole. That thought kindled a fire of hatred deep within Henry. He had been ordered to slaughter babes. He had been ordered to become a monster, but surely that monster had been lurking, waiting to surface, or he would not have so readily been able to carry out such an atrocious deed. Lieutenant Radcliffe had somehow been able to see Henry’s true nature and had unleashed it. Whether Henry liked it or not, that door was now open, flung wide.
Henry was certain of two things. If he was to be a monster, he would be a monster of his own making. He would use this day to leverage himself into a position where men like Radcliffe would be unable to touch him, unable to command him to do their sadistic bidding. And second, Radcliffe would one day feel the wrath of the monster he had so callously unveiled.
Henry’s tears had subsided by now and their trails on his face were indistinguishable from the sweat of an oddly warm spring afternoon. Slowly, he pushed himself to his feet and looked around for his horse. The mare had wandered farther up the road and, now recovered from their run, was nibbling the green grass in the shade of a tree. At his approach, she snorted nervously, afraid of another frantic decampment, so Henry gently took her reins and stroked her nose to reassure her that their next voyage would be undertaken with more dignity. Once she had relaxed under his hand, he gave her one last pat and mounted.
By now his company had a sizable head start, and if he did not make up ground quickly, his absence would be noted before he could catch them. Heading back the way he had come, now at a slower pace, he realized the countryside was nearly identical to that of his childhood. It then occurred to him that Norfolk was in the southeastern tip of Virginia, and they had ridden south from there. That placed him near the Carolina border and next to the Dismal Swamp, which his father’s plantation in North Carolina abutted. His passing glances across the landscape turned into keen searches until he found a faint marker etched into a tree.
For years, hunters had traversed these woods and swamps and, in so doing, established a series of trails to follow the game that could only be found by those who knew what to look for. With the canals in the hands of the Union, this was the only way left to cross the swamp. This was Henry’s salvation. Traveling at almost a crawl, Henry inched his way down the road until he finally saw a fresh mark indicating a trail was currently in use. He guided his horse off the road and onto the path. He wasn’t entirely sure of his location, but once into the network of trails, he would be able to find his way quickly and easily make up the time he had lost.
Henry was able to reach the encampment as twilight fell and, much to his pleasure, he had beaten the rear of his company, albeit arriving from the opposite side of camp. First things first, he headed straight to his tent so he could wash his face and change his shirt, which was soiled and more than a little stiff with dried blood. He found that the men moved out of his way more adroitly than usual. Maybe his deeds had already run the grapevine, or maybe there was nothing out of the ordinary and his imagination was simply creating the picture he expected to see. Regardless, he was unable to make it to his tent before a young boy came running up with orders that Henry was to report to the lieutenant general’s tent, double quick. Loath as he was to forego his ablutions, he dared not make Longstreet wait. So Henry handed off the reins of his mare and headed toward the center of the encampment.
Upon arrival, he announced himself to the lieutenant who was controlling admittance to Longstreet.
“Sergeant Henry reporting to see the lieutenant general.”
The lieutenant remained engrossed in his papers. “What’s your last name soldier?”
Henry fought back his annoyance. “It’s Henry. Sergeant Thomas Henry.”
At this, the lieutenant looked up. “You’ve got yourself two first names there haven’t you? I bet that gets a might confusin’.”
“Yes, sir, so I’ve been told, sir. That’s why everyone calls me Henry and ignores the Thomas.”
“Mighty sensible of you, Henry. The lieutenant general is finishin’ up with someone right now. Wait here and you’ll be next.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Henry saluted the man and stood aside to wait. He did not have long and was more than a little pleased to see Lieutenant Radcliffe exit the tent in a foul mood and storm off in the opposite direction. Whatever discussions had preceded Henry’s arrival had clearly not gone in the lieutenant’s favor and that lightened Henry’s spirits measurably. He approached the entrance to the tent and, upon hearing a summons to enter, ducked and strode inside.
“Well, I can see by lookin’ at you, there’s no need to ask whether you carried out that imbecile Radcliffe’s orders.”
Henry was taken aback. He had never heard an officer disparage another in the presence of an enlisted man. More than that, it was obvious the general did not approve of Radcliffe’s order to kill the family. Henry’s mouth went dry, and he could hear the loud thump of his heart slamming against his ear drums. Longstreet had been unsure, maybe had even hoped, that Henry had disobeyed the order he had been given. What else could explain the look of resignation that fell across his face when Henry had entered the tent? The realization that Henry could have ignored the order and gotten away with it struck him like a blow and, had he had anything left in his stomach, he would have started retching all over again. There had been a choice after all.
The general started talking again, but try as he might, Henry could not make himself focus on what was being said. It was taking all of his effort to remain standing and hide the roiling turmoil that was seething in his brain. He could have chosen differently. He could have defied Radcliffe’s orders. With yet another lurch to his stomach, Henry realized he had known all along. After all, hadn’t he saved the infant? Hadn’t he defied his orders in the leniency he had shown the babe? If he had the free will to defy the order in that regard, did not that mean that he had the free will to defy it in its entirety? With that awareness, even buried deep down, did not that mean that he had chosen to kill that family? It was this question that gripped him.
Searching for anything to anchor himself to the present and to get his mind away from the horrible, accusing thoughts that were flooding his brain, Henry desperately concentrated on his commander until his words started to break through. Mercifully, the general had not yet required Henry’s participation in the conversation and appeared to be oblivious to the inner conflict raging behind Henry’s stolid face.
“What I can’t figure out is, if you stayed behind, how in the hell did you beat some of the men back? Those on foot escorting the slaves are still over a mile out to the north, and then I get a report that you’ve arrived at camp from the south. Now you’re going to explain to me how in the blue blazes you managed to do that!”
Henry tried desperately to diminish the parched feel to his mouth. Failing, he spoke through the cotton that lined his cheeks and tongue.
“Sir, I took a hunting path.”
“You mean through this swamp?” He poked his finger down onto the map spread out on the table in front of him, depicting a massive swamp that stood between their location and where Henry had come from. “This swamp that has no discernible safe trails and has been eatin’ my men alive for weeks?”
“Yes, sir.”
“These trails here?” Longstreet pointed to lines drawn through the swamp.
“No, sir, those are the canals. You don’t have any of the trails marked.”
“I’ll be damned. When I was told the men had seen canals, I didn’t believe it. Who puts a canal in a swamp? Can we use them?”
“Not easily, sir.” Henry looked at the map more closely and pointed to a blank spot. “Lake Drummond is right here. After the Revolution, crews went into the swamp to build canals from one end to the other through the lake. The swamp got the better of them though, and they gave up before they finished. The canals can be used for stretches, but not all the way through. The hunting and deer trails are the only way to go from one side to another.”
Longstreet nodded at the map. “Show me.”
Henry swallowed hard, wishing he could give any other answer. “I can’t.”
Frustration flashed across the general’s eyes. “Why not?”
“As your men have assuredly discovered, there are patches of this swamp that constantly fluctuate. Those patches grow and spill into different areas depending on the amount of rainfall. Therefore, the paths change, so you have to make sure you only follow the most recent marks on the trees that hunters leave. With all the hunters at war, there weren’t any fresh marks. I managed to pick my way through because I know how to read the swamp as well as the marks. I could vaguely map out my path, or show soldiers the marks I made, but chances are it would only be good until the next rainfall.”
Longstreet straightened himself and examined Henry as he continued to pour over the map, “How is it you come to know so much about this swamp?”
Henry moved the map on the desk so he could unroll it further, revealing the far southwestern edge. After a moment, he pointed to a spot bordering the swamp.
“My family owns this tract of land down in North Carolina. I grew up in the Dismal Swamp.”
A smile spread across Longstreet’s face. “That is the best news I have heard all day.”