William Johnstone: Butchery of the Mountain Man

Again, Smoke began telling the story, and again Professor Armbruster found himself transported beyond time and place so that he was an eyewitness, almost a participant, to the events as they transpired.

Media, Pennsylvania—September 1865

With a history that goes back to William Penn, Media is one of the oldest, continuously occupied settlements in Pennsylvania. Served by the West Chester and Philadelphia Railroad, it was only twelve miles from the city of Philadelphia. And, because of the railroad and its proximity to the city, it was a summer resort for well-to-do Philadelphians.

Father Nathaniel Jackson, rector of Christ Episcopal Church, drummed his fingers on the desk in his study as he stared at his son.

“Why would you do such a thing, John? Is it your intention to embarrass the church? Is it your intention to embarrass me?”

“No.”

“Then why would you say such a thing in the men’s Bible study?”

John didn’t answer.

“Do you really think that the reason so many men were killed during the war was because God went fishing?”

John remained silent.

“God went fishing?” Father Jackson shouted at the top of his voice, slamming his hand down on the desk so hard that a bookend fell over and several books slid off onto the floor.

John started to pick up the books.

“Leave them!” his father said loudly.

John sat up again.

“Have you nothing to say to me, John?”

“Well, didn’t Jesus tell Paul that He would make him a fisher of men?” John asked with a smile.

Father Jackson stretched out his arm and pointed his finger at his son. “Don’t you blaspheme! Don’t you dare blaspheme!”

“I’m sorry,” John said contritely.

“What were you thinking, John? When you disrupted the men’s Bible study, what were you thinking?”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“I am an Episcopal priest, John. And like all men of the cloth, I listen to the deepest fears, the most private sins, and the most earnest questions of my parishioners. Do you really think I can’t listen to the problems of my own son? And you do have problems, John. You have manifested those problems ever since you returned from the war. You are not the same man who left.”

“Pop, over three million men participated in that war, twenty percent of them were killed, and another twenty percent were wounded. How could anybody have gone through that hell, and returned as the same man who left?”

“You aren’t the only member of this church who went to war, John. No one else seems to have the same degree of restlessness that you do.”

“Are you talking about Frank Gilbert, who spent the war in Philadelphia recruiting other men to die? Are you talking about Mark Davidson, who spent his war in Washington? Or maybe Milt Goodpasture, who commanded a militia company that never left Delaware County?”

“They all did their part,” Father Jackson said.

“Tell me one other member of this church who killed a dozen men—sons, husbands, fathers—good men—whose only sin was to be wearing a different color uniform. Tell me one other man in this church who had to wipe from his face the blood and brain matter of his best friend who had just had half his head blown off while standing right beside him. Tell me one other man in this church who shit in his pants because he was slitting the throat of another human being, and he didn’t have the opportunity to go find someplace to relieve himself.”

“John, there is no need for you to be vulgar about this. If you are going to discuss it, please be Christian enough to use civil language,” Father Jackson scolded.

“Civil language? Civil language? ” John shouted. “I’m talking to you about hell! Do you understand that? You preach about hell, you offer salvation to keep your flock from hell, but have you ever seen hell? Because I have seen it. I have not only seen it, I have lived there! And you complain because I am not using civil language? Well you tell me, Father Jackson—and I’m asking you as my priest, and not as my father—just how does a person describe hell, in civil language?”

The small brick building sat alongside the railroad track, not a part of, but directly adjacent to the passenger depot. The sign on the front of the building read: PENNSYLVANIA FREIGHT BROKERAGE. And though they handled railroad freight, they also handled freight that was moved by wagon, riverboat, and ship.

It was near the end of a busy day, and John was separating the bills of lading into the type of transportation required. Many of the shipments would use multiple means of transport before reaching their final destination.

John’s place of employment was behind a counter that separated the entrance from the rest of the building. From this position he dealt with the public, assessing their shipment needs, suggesting the best solution for them, then, once the requirement was established, he would make all the necessary arrangements for them. He found the job boring, but for the time being it was the only job he could find. He had studied to be a teacher; the original idea was for him to start a school that was associated with Christ Episcopal Church. And, had there not been a war, he would no doubt now be the headmaster of the school, perhaps with one of his own children enrolled.

But when he returned to Media he was in no mood to teach school. By his own admission, at this point in his life, he would not be a good role model for children.

Eric Coopersmith, owner of the Pennsylvania Freight Brokerage company, stepped into the area behind the counter and looked over at John, who, by now, had four stacks of shipping documents.

“Mr. Jackson, did you tell Mr. Poindexter to go to hell?”

“Not exactly,” John replied. “What I told him was that I was quite adept at processing shipping requirements as to carrier and destination, and I would be happy to arrange his transportation to hell.”

“Did you think that was an appropriate response to a paying customer?”

“I thought it might be a little more appropriate than knocking him on his ass,” John said.

“I see.”

“Is this conversation going somewhere, Mr. Coopersmith? Or is it just your purpose to chastise me?”

“Oh, yes, it is going somewhere, Mr. Jackson. I’m sorry, but I’m afraid we just can’t use you anymore. You don’t fit in with the others.”

“Fit in? What is there to fit in?”

“Were this the first incident, I would be inclined to overlook it. But this type of behavior has become far too common. In addition, our customers have told me they don’t like to deal with you. There is a sense of melancholy about you that they find disturbing. Don’t bother to come back tomorrow.”

The oldest and most privileged of the city’s old-guard clubs was located at 1301 Walnut Street. It was the club to which the most elite members of Philadelphia society belonged, and by education and social standing, John Jackson would have been considered a shoo-in for membership.

But on this day, shortly after he lost his job with the Pennsylvania Freight Brokerage, he was sitting in the outer sanctum of the club. He had been denied any deeper penetration into the building because that was reserved for members only, and he was not yet a member. He had every intention of rectifying that, however, and had applied for membership, having acquired all the necessary sponsors and recommendations. He was now waiting for the results.

He was reading a newspaper, but all the while keeping an eye on the door that led into the inner sanctum, looking for Morgan Phillips, who was his sponsor.

The expression on Phillips’s face told John all he needed to know.

“I’m sorry, John,” Phillips said by way of beginning. “But I have put your name in for membership three times. I’m afraid the rules of the Philadelphia Club are quite specific. You have been blackballed three times. You are not eligible to have your name submitted again.”