Horrible Harvest

One train car entire for three fellas would seem big enough for each to find peace and quiet on our northbound travels, but one fool wanted to preach the Bible every second of the way, and the other made me feel high-on uneasy about the war I’d fought and the things I’d done.  The car wasn’t near big enough.

I pulled my pipe out and packed it with my opium and tobacco mixture when Tate set across from me, pulling a cigar from his jacket pocket. “Looks like we both picked up a smoking habit along the way.”

I stopped from lighting mine, not knowing if he knew the smell of burning opium or not.

He lit his. “War gives rise to all sorts of bad business. All the colored troops wanted to be like General Grant.”

“I’m not much for talking about the war,” I said putting the pipe back in my pocket.

“I’m not either. Not talking about the war. I’m talking about cigars.”

The train rattled on a few miles more without a word passing between us. He broke the silence. “I killed a boy – White boy – He’d be about your age now – Killed him in a little skirmish outside Murfreesboro. So small, it never got a name. One casualty. One killer. I killed a lot more in bigger battles, but I can’t shake that one. I can stop that one from running through my head. He was scared, Augustus. I know we all were, but he was a boy, a child – I killed a child.”

I let silence simmer ‘fore I said, “He’da kilt you if things was turnt around different.”

“No. I played it out in my head a million times – more. If I’d let up, he would of run. For his life. He would of run.”

“Why you telling me this?”

“Because it’s important for me that you know when I kill Cameron Miller, it won’t make me a monster. I was made that long ago.”

He stood. “I’ll leave you in peace so you can smoke your opium.”

I watched, dumbstruck as he moved to the bench next to Douglas.