Southside of Heaven

By Richard Wright

It is the 1970s when nineteen-year-old Johnny Marra follows his fathers footsteps and becomes a New York City police officer. As he makes a living chasing bad guys amid the concrete and steel of an urban society, Johnny has no idea his true identity has been chasing himall the way from a South Carolina town during the Civil War.

Fifteen-year-old Josh Butler wants nothing more than to be a Confederate soldier. Determined to do the right thing, Josh leaves his idyllic life behind and journeys into a brutal war where he soon questions everything he has ever known.

Life is a miracle, living is a gift, chasing it is never ending.

Southside of Heaven is the compelling tale of a modern-day cops quest to find his identity as he returns to the past to uncover the truth, humility, and faith behind the mask of human suffering and brutal conflict.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jun 5, 2015
• ISBN: 9781491764022

Richard Wright

Richard Wright won international renown for his powerful and visceral depiction of the black experience. He stands today alongside such African-American luminaries as Zora Neale Hurston, James Baldwin, and Toni Morrison, and two of his novels, Native Son and Black Boy, are required reading in high schools and colleges across the nation. He died in 1960.

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Southside of

HEAVEN

A Novel

RICHARD WRIGHT

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SOUTHSIDE OF HEAVEN

A NOVEL

Copyright © 2015 Richard Wright.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

ISBN: 978-1-4917-6403-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-6404-6 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-6402-2 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2015906231

iUniverse rev. date: 05/27/2015

Contents

Acknowledgments

Author’s Note

Chapter One Chapter One: Tranquility’s Mask

Chapter Two Chapter Two: So It Begins

Chapter Three Chapter Three: Winter, War, and Willows

Chapter Four Chapter Four: John’s Dream

Chapter Five Chapter Five: To War

Chapter Six Chapter Six: Rookies

Chapter Seven Chapter Seven: Hornets’ Nest

Chapter Eight Chapter Eight: Peg’s Hero

Chapter Nine Chapter Nine: Black Creek Tears

Chapter Ten Chapter Ten: Blue Blood

Chapter Eleven Chapter Eleven: The Return

Chapter Twelve Chapter Twelve: Eternity

Epilogue

Past Past: The Un-Civil War

Present

Bibliography

To my mom,

Madeline,

my life, my heartbeat.

You are always with me.

Acknowledgments

It is rare indeed in these times to find a person who will sacrifice his or her time to help someone in desperate need of help.

Thanks to my wife, Carol, for her unselfishness and her encouragement as I worked on this book, draft after draft. Without her, this book would never have been written. My sincere appreciation and love always.

Thanks to my friends at the Black Diamond Writers Network in Pennsylvania.

To the wonderful people at iUniverse: Kimberly West Fox, Traci Anderson, and the crew—you are amazing. Thank you for helping to make my dreams a reality.

Thanks to my father, Robert, a man who writes from his heart articles about outdoor life and nature as well as senior citizen issues. His spirit and zest for life is what gives me encouragement to write forever. Thanks, Pop; you’re my hero.

Author’s Note

When I set out on my journey to write Southside of Heaven, I began with scraps of paper and half a pencil. I spent seven months with nothing more than memory.

It’s been my perception—and most people would be skeptical about it—that our faces come back. Some people believe we all have a twin (which I am) and that, even with no bloodline, someone, somewhere, and sometime has or has had our face.

My conclusion may seem to be a quantum leap for what many may consider merely coincidences. The basis of any mechanics of theory starts with questions—What if? Is it possible? Was it a highly superior autobiographical memory that helped me write this story? It is a curiosity that I hope to bestow on the readers of Southside of Heaven.

Enjoy.

R. W.

Disclaimer: The author of this book is neither a Civil War historian nor an expert on historical events.

Chapter One

Chapter One: Tranquility’s Mask

Past

L eaves of fury enveloped the cabin, chattering against the windows. The wind swirled and slammed the shutters into the sides of the cabin. Joshua Butler slid out of his bunk, punched a hole into the blackness of the night, and pulled the two shutters closed, hooking them securely. And so was the night.

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Peering out of one eye, he caught a thin yellow line of sunlight through a slit in the shutters, then … Joshua! Get up this very minute!

Yes, Mama, Josh cried out.

You have to ride to town with Papa.

I’m coming! I’m a coming.

The seasons were changing in South Carolina, and even if the residents wished it to stay warm, they were wrong for thinking it could.

Good morning, Mama, Josh said, arriving for breakfast at the proper time of seven. (From Josh’s room to the kitchen had to be ten feet, if that.) Oh, grits again? We just had grits yesterday.

Watch your mouth, boy.

Yes, Mama.

Where’s a twelve-year-old get to behave like that from? Some kind of coon-hunting rebel!

Where’s Papa? Josh asked.

Why, he’s out yonder with that there old wagon and the turkey fat. (Turkey fat, back in the late 1850s, was used to pack the wagon wheel so it would spin freely.) Eat your grits and fetch coffee for your pa, and be gone with you two.

When Elizabeth Butler—known as Liz to her family—turned to cut up the rabbits for their late meal, Josh went to his pa’s old fishing basket and placed his bowl of grits inside. Okay, Ma, see you later! he called as he dashed out the old rickety door.

It seemed as if the cabin had been built before rocks were on earth. It wasn’t much to look at, never mind live in. Joshua’s room was maybe the size of a horse’s stall. His folks—well, they lived mostly in front of the stone fireplace. Their intended room had gone to his older sister, who always got her way.

The cabin was nestled among some weeping willow trees that resembled old, worn-out warriors. It was a small spot that had been a hideout for outlaws. Trees and large rocks gave excellent concealment from Indians.

There hasn’t been Injuns here for quite a while now. The Comanches are still giving the round eyes trouble west of here, Josh was thinking out loud. Across to the barn he walked—not too fast, mind you. Pop, I’ll hold that wheel for ya.

Okay, son.

Here’s ya coffee—nice and black just like you drink it.

You know, Josh, this old wagon has seen its day, said Jim Butler as he squeezed turkey fat into the hub of the wheel. Okay, pass that there wheel.

Got it, Pa.

Now kick that leg out from under.

Wee, it’s done, Pa! As he kicked out the leg, the wagon landed on all four wheels. They were set to travel.

Black Creek was a shade under four miles away, a small cotton-trading town of some two hundred souls. But what Joshua and his pa had was very little cotton; rather, they had peanuts. Joshua went to the side of the barn.

Grab those two sacks, and bring ’em yonder, Jim said.

Josh began to speak. These peanuts are at least a few weeks old. Are they still moist?

Jim yelled back, Yeh.

How did you ever want to grow peanuts?

Well, you see, son, some man named Washington something, he said, not the first president, but some guy—Booker!—said nuts will bring wealth and that they will be our salvation, praise the Lord. He paused. Oh, son, I’ll be right back. Jim Butler headed back into the cabin. He was not a big fellow, but kind and loving. He had a square face, and he was a robust man, strong as ten Indian chiefs.

A short while later he returned from the cabin with a stern look carved on his face, his hands behind his back. Josh was fearful. What did I do wrong now?

Finally a crooked smile popped on Jim’s face. Happy birthday! It’s a little late. Took a while to make the hook, Jim was happy to explain.

There in front of Joshua stood a new fishing pole.

Son, that’s the finest black bamboo in Mr. Yen’s mercantile.

Gee, thanks, Pa. Jim put his own pole in the wagon alongside Josh’s new one.

Wait! screamed Liz. She was a well-educated woman with a face of God’s angels. You forgot your fishing basket.

Thank you, my dear, said Jim. Then he urged his horses forward, and the wagon pulled away—father and son with peanuts and fishing gear, one old wagon, and two old horses.

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As the wagon wobbled its way among leaves and rocks, everyone hoped that the wheel would stay put. Elizabeth went back to her womanly chores.

Well, it’s about time, Missy, exclaimed Liz as her daughter walked into the kitchen.

Sorry, Mama. I was reading until late.

I know, she said. I found the book on the floor.

Sue Butler was the bright one—petite and pretty yet as temperamental as a rattlesnake. Where’s Pa?

He and your brother went to the market with the nuts and to pick up supplies, said Liz. Sweetie, pass me those apples.

What ya making, Ma?

Now pass me the corn. Your pa’s favorite, corn apples.

Liz would core the apples and put roasted corn in the centers.

Can I help core some?

Pick up a knife. Sue started in. As Sue cut the centers out, Liz was busy shucking corn and shaving the corn from the cob.

Hey, Ma?

Yes.

You know that boy down at the crossroads?

Who?

I think his name is—

But Liz cut her daughter off. No! I don’t know. What are ya interested in boys for? You’re too young.

Ma, I’m almost sixteen now.

You need to move on in schooling.

But, Ma … but, Ma.

Never you mind now. Leave it alone, Sue.

Okay, but you will never know.

Then so be it.

And so it came to be. Sue was again heartbroken. Would she ever find that special feeling? Most days she could talk to her mother, but sometimes she would just stare with some kind of lost look in her eyes. Sue had some idea what it was but didn’t speak a word of it.

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It was almost noon by the time Jim Butler and son pulled up to the marketplace.

Give those horses some water, Josh, Jim said as he kicked dirt from his torn boots. And bring the peanuts. He was walking as if he had a bear on his back.

Jim walked up to Yen’s store and cracked the door open. Mr. Yen.

Why howdy, Mr. Butler, sir. And how might you be doing these days?

I got those there peanuts, said Jim. Two bags filled to the brim. The boy is bringing them in now. The last bags before winter.

Josh hauled in the heavy sacks.

Yen examined the peanuts. Here you go, Yen said and offered a dollar and fifty cents.

Wait a gosh darn second, said Jim. You said two dollars a bag our last meeting.

Yes, but only if they are dry. These nuts are still wet, and they will turn green in color soon.

You win this time, Yen, said Jim. Then he turned to his son. Josh, look at this here whittling knife. That’s a real pretty one, son. Rabbit foot handle.

Only twenty cents, Pa.

Never mind, son, maybe next time.

Jim Butler wandered over to the glass jars. The missus needs two cases of these jars, he said to Yen. You know, those new screw-on tops.

I just got some in. I have them in back. I’ll snatch them right up for you.

Thanks. While you’re back there, get some grinding stones for my axes. Jim turned to his son. Josh.

Yes, Pa.

Grab those candy sticks for the ladies.

Will there be anything else, Jim? asked Yen.

No thank you, Yen.

Twenty-five cents for jars, twenty four in all. Five cents for grind stones, five in all. Ten cents for two boxes of candy. That’s forty cents, please.

Thank you, Mr. Yen. You have a nice day, Jim said.

You both also.

As they packed the old wagon, they noticed the town was sort of empty today because of the cattle trades going on north of there.

Hey there, Mr. Butler, called out Joe Peterson. Joe was the town barber, a respected older gentleman with no hair on top but a short black beard, sunken eyes, and a slight, thin-set jaw, yet a joyous chap. What brings you and Josh to town?

Why, we have to make some money, don’t we? I brought those peanuts.

You and your peanuts.

They will make me rich someday. You watch, Joe.

Pa knows what he tells, said Josh. They are like gold nuggets.

Well, I think hats are a waste of money, said Joe. How ’bout you two getting a haircut today?

No thanks. We have to get back to the ladies.

The wagon jerked from side to side as they jumped up on it, and then it wiggled its way out of town headed south.

Pa …

Boy, what is it?

Are we … are we—

Yes, boy, we’re stopping by the fishing hole.

I hear the bass in that there Rickets Brook are this big. Josh spread his hands wide.

How big, son?

This big? The boy held his hands out about four feet apart.

His pa moved them closer to two feet. I think this big, son.

They pulled over under a large old oak tree that shaded them from the winds of a cool autumn day. As Josh had his new black bamboo pole, Jim took out his old splintered fishing pole and reached for the fishing basket. Then they skedaddled to the edge of the brook.

Pa, I’ll fish over here.

Jim put his hand into the basket to get his worms. Wait a bloody … what … what? Boy, what is this? Jim pulled out what looked like white worms. Joshua Butler, is this your grits, boy?

A pale, nervous look washed over Josh’s face, and his arms seemed to find no place to hide except to flail in the wind. Yes, Pa. I’m sorry, but Ma—

Your ma nothing! Now you know fish don’t eat white worms! They both broke out in a silly type of I won’t tell your ma laughter.

An hour or so and two fish later, Jim spoke up. We need at least two more of these catfish, son.

Pa, that old hat by the fireplace. Why do you keep it if it’s got a big hole in it?

Well, son, it’s like this … And Jim began to tell his old wives’ fish tale like all dads tell their sons. "I was fishing about where you are, oh, few years before you were born. I didn’t always catch fish the way you see me catch them now. I always had a big, floppy hat. I’d set some rocks out on the brook to stand on. Then, with my hat in one hand and a branch in the other, I’d chase the fish into my hat! Well, son, one